Table of Contents

- Dedication

- One: From tragedy to travesty

- 1. The last day dawns

- 2. The setup

- 3. A witness comes forward

- 4. Final prayers

- 5. A last minute hitch

- 6. The long walk

- 7. The appeal

- 8. The final moment

- Two: The nether region

- 1. The new arrival

- Three: Life on the flipside

- 1. The early days

- 2. The welcoming arms of the lesser world

- 3. Invisible friends

- 4. Dare devil escapades

- 5. Tragedies strike

- 6. Drawing the short straw

- 7. Stood up

- 8. Out of the frying pan ...

- 9. A frantic search

- 10. Upper Wyevale

- 11. Anxious times

- 12. A welcome visitor

- 13. A knock on the door

- 14. Suspicions are raised

- 15. A home away from home

- 16. A meeting is convened

- 17. The first encounter

- 18. A case of the jitters

- 19. The second encounter

- 20. The debriefing

- 21. A different approach

- 22. Born again

Life on the Flipside

or

In Two Minds

By Etienne de L'Amour

A prequel, book 2 in the Shadowlands series.

Copyright © 2011, 2012 by Etienne de L'Amour

The right of Etienne de L'Amour as the owner of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. Copyright throughout the world.

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical or photographic, by recording or any information storage or retrieval system or method now known or to be invented or adapted, without prior permission obtained in writing from the publishers, except by a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review written for inclusion in a journal, magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

First edition: 21 September 2011

First edition for Kindle: 15 February 2012

Sher Point Publications, UK

Front cover image: Captive in the Prison (1850s) by Mihály Zichy (1827–1906). Back cover image: Detail from The Elect (c1500) by Luca Signorelli (1450–1523).

Dedication

There is an ancient saying of the Sufi mystics:

“Some doors can only be opened from the inside.”

May doorways open fortuitously for you.

“The strong take it away from the weak,

and the smart take it away from the strong.”

~ James Cagney, The Oklahoma Kid (1939).

One: From tragedy to travesty

1. The last day dawns

Even before the first cock had finished its strident crowing, rudely heralding the coming day, Brad Foster leapt to his feet, startled to hear the rusty old iron bolt being drawn back and the squeak of the hinges as the door was cast open, to bang heavily against the stone cell wall.

He'd hardly slept a wink that night, deeply worried by what the next day held in store, but he must have dozed off and for a time he'd been lost in some blissful fantasy, completely forgetting his predicament. Brad dimly recalled this troubling feeling during his childhood, waking one morning to find that he wasn't at home but still in hospital for a tonsillectomy and that no amount of wishing this away would make his situation otherwise.

But now Brad was wide awake, his heart thumping heavily in his chest, hit by the abrupt recollection that his time had finally arrived. As the realization sank in, Brad was suddenly light headed and overcome by a nauseous feeling that welled up in him from his lower bowels. He staggered back, sending the tin tray and the half-eaten remnants of his last supper clattering to the floor and the evil brown cockroaches scurrying for cover, and tightly clutching the iron bed head for support.

2. The setup

June had made a grave mistake when she'd invited Tarquin into her life, but then he was such a charming and charismatic man and he'd had them all fooled, with the exception of their pet Chihuahua, Lucky, who would growl and snap at the man's heels whenever he arrived at their house, and their daughter Sophia who always made her excuses and left the room when Tarquin put in an appearance. Brad had questioned Sophia about this, concerned that her behaviour was uncharacteristically rude, but all she could say was that for some inexplicable reason, the man simply “gave her the creeps” and she felt that when he looked at her, he was undressing her with his eyes. That, in itself, should have forewarned Brad about Tarquin's real intentions and about what might happen, but he was up to his eyeballs in work at the time, frantically bailing water to keep the business from sinking into the murky depths of the recession, and he'd unfortunately put it down to Sophia's adolescence and dismissed the thought. And again, had he known at the time what was happening, he would have taken time out from his busy-busy life and spent it with his family, and perhaps averted disaster; but at the time Brad had actually welcomed Tarquin's presence, foolishly thinking that the man was helping June cope and providing her with comfort whilst he was otherwise engaged, with his nose to the proverbial grindstone.

Brad kept telling himself that he'd make it up to his family, once the crisis was over, but the recession ground on and on and all too late he came to realize that one's nearest and dearest don't want rain checks in lieu of love, no matter how pressing one's commitments, they want love right here and now. Tomorrow never happens, as the saying goes. Of course, hindsight would be a wonderful thing, had prior events not taken such a tragic turn.

Brad was the last to find out about Tarquin and June's affair, though a friend had hinted that something might be amiss, and it was only as witnesses were wheeled in and the trial unfolded that, standing in the dock in a daze, he was able to finally piece together what had happened, leading up to his conviction.

“The defendant, Bradley Foster of no fixed abode, showed no emotion as he stood in the dock to be sentenced”, the local evening newspaper had reported, as they so often did, implying that here was some callous, perhaps psychopathic killer, devoid of that hopeful, redeeming human faculty of remorse. They couldn't bear to think that here was a human being, just like them, who had fallen on hard times. Nothing could be further from the truth. Whilst Brad had been on remand, he'd been through the whole gamut of emotion and now he was simply too stunned and worn out to feel or understand anything any more. His daughter used the word “gutted” quite often and over the most minor of life's hiccups, and now they both knew what “gutted” really meant: absolute and irrevocable devastation. Of course, it would be triply hard for Sophia. She'd lost her mother; she would soon lose him, and she was as yet so young, at a tender age when even life's foothills must appear as daunting and unscalable mountains and precipices to her. What grieved Brad all the more was that he wouldn't be there for his beloved Sophia in her times of need and to simply watch her grow and blossom.

After the trial Bethany Holt, who had been appointed his public defender, was prevented from seeing him again. She'd lodged an appeal, but that appeal had been denied. He was allowed one visit from a relative, however. A number of his own relatives had publicly disowned him by this time, and one had sold his sordid story (and Brad's soul) to the gutter press, but in spite of the pressure she must have been under, his daughter Sophia had stood by him throughout. She'd been in court each day during the trial, until it became too much for her to bear, and she paid him one last call on the day before his execution. Oh, what a delight it was to see this beauty with her shiny raven hair cascading in ringlets over her shoulders, her big, sparking green cat's eyes and her broad smile, so very much like her dear mother. Under normal circumstances, Sophia simply oozed warmth, intelligence and good old fashioned common sense and she had such a lively sense of humour, much of that inherited from June, God rest her soul. You couldn't wish for a better integrated, more rounded daughter.

The strain was clearly evident in Sophia that day, though. She didn't look at all herself and this final meeting would be forever etched in Brad's memory: being both a delight and a great strain at the same time. Sophia was distraught at the imminent prospect of losing him and what made it worse was that there was the thick glass screen between them as they sat together that final time. Oh, how Brad yearned to go to Sophia and put his arms around her, but he could not. What touched Brad more than anything was Sophia's unwavering conviction that he was innocent and her equally unwavering support for him.

Pressing her palm on the thick glass screen, as they came to take him away, so close and yet so far from his own sweating palm and leaving a forlorn and lingering imprint on the glass, Sophia swore on her mother's memory that she would do everything within her ability to prove her father's innocence and clear his name, so that they could all rest in peace.

That was a wonderful gift to take with him on his journey. That and a treasury of memories of meeting, courting, marrying and living with June. She'd been such a generous and deeply caring soul. Anybody who thought for one moment that he could have harmed June didn't know him and June at all. After ten years of marriage, though they sometimes disagreed, and often quite loudly, Brad was still head over heels in love with the woman and – within reason – he would have done anything for her. Brad wasn't sure what, if anything, would survive this shipwreck at life's end; but he fondly hoped that if anything did, it would be love such as this. If you couldn't take love with you when you passed away, and even perhaps bring a little of this gold dust back with you if one were born again, then what would be the point of life and what hope would they have?

Drink had been Brad's undoing, of course. When he'd finally stumbled onto June's affair with Tarquin, he and June had had words. He'd already downed three stiff whiskeys, each one a double, and let his mouth get the better of him. He'd stormed out of the house and got himself totally rat arsed at a local pub, and in an unbelievably foolish moment that he would rue for what little remained of his life, and perhaps beyond, he had been overheard to remark that he could kill June. Of course, he used the words figuratively, and he actually qualified his remark to that effect at that time, but come the trial that stupid, throwaway remark was taken as a threat and to be proof of prior intent. And that meant murder in the first degree. Bethany Holt had pleaded with him to allow her to defend him on the grounds of diminished responsibility, but that would have been a lie and he had been adamant that he would prove his innocence.

What finally nailed down the lid of Brad's coffin was the testimony given by Norris Whitmore, one of Tarquin's bosom buddies. The blatant falsehoods that Whitmore had come out with on the witness stand stunned Brad. Until that moment, he had fervently believed that he'd be given a fair trial and he could hope and pray that truth and sanity would prevail, but Brad was totally unprepared for this sucker punch as the nervous, twitching Norris Whitmore began to spout a whole series of lies, which the jury took hook, line and ruddy sinker. Brad could not recall having ever rubbed Norris Whitmore up the wrong way. They weren't the greatest of pals, sure, but they got along pretty much okay; and he could only imagine that someone – most likely Tarquin – had some hold over the man, or had put him up to this. And if that were the case, then perhaps it was Tarquin who had murdered June and was framing him?

Why that should be was another unsolved mystery. It could be that Tarquin and June also had words that night whilst Brad was getting sloshed in the pub. Perhaps June had told him that their affair was over and Tarquin had murdered her and framed Brad? Maybe it was a case of “If I can't have you, then nobody shall”? But who knows? All this was pure conjecture on his part.

Sooner or later, however, the man would meet his maker and the moment of truth would arrive for him, Brad mused; but that was cold comfort. Nothing in this world could bring June back.

3. A witness comes forward

Bethany Holt had just been round her rambling apartment checking that the windows were closed and the lights were out and was just about to undress for bed when the doorbell rang. The bell rang several more times before she got downstairs and there was a heavy rapping of knuckles on the door now. Who on earth would come calling at two o'clock in the night?

“Alright, alright!” Bethany snarled as she crossed the plush burgundy carpet of the hallway. She turned the big brass key key in the lock and yanked the heavy door open, realizing too late that she should perhaps have peered out through the spy hole first.

“Do you know what time it is?” she complained, seeing the diminutive figure hovering on her door step. “This had better be worth my while, buster.”

The man pulled off his flat cap to reveal a bald head glistening with sweat and he stood there dithering, with his cap tightly clutched in his hands.

“I'm sorry to bother you ...” the man began.

Realization hit Bethany. This was one of the myriad witnesses the prosecution had wheeled into court in the Foster case.

“Norris Whitmore,” the man confirmed.

“Yes, I remember,” she nodded. “Your testimony pretty much nailed Foster. So what are you doing here and at this time of night?”

“I'm sorry,” Whitmore began. “I couldn't live with myself ….”

Bethany waved her hands in the air. “It's a little late for second thoughts and soul searching,” she told the man. “The case is closed.”

“I lied,” Whitmore continued.

“I had to. Tarquin Hall has been blackmailing me, you see, and if the truth ever came out ….” the man blurted. “But now they've condemned an innocent man and I can't live with that, either. I'm caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, you have to understand.”

That came as quite a shock and she drew in her breath and pursed her lips. “Then you'd better come in and tell me the whole story.”

Bethany thought fast, then abruptly changed her mind. She'd been working late and it was already gone two o'clock.

“Wait here while I get my coat.”

She dashed upstairs, snatched her coat and bag and clattered back downstairs. Sod the neighbours.

“Come with me,” she requested, ushering the man outside and hastily locking the door behind them.

“Where are we going?”

“To see Judge Meyers,” she replied brusquely, tugging Whitmore by the arm toward her car.

“Can't you phone?”

She ignored the man and bustled him into the passenger seat, then climbed in herself, started up the engine and backed the car down the drive.

“Protocol,” she explained as they drove away. “Confounded protocol. The judge will demand to see us in person before committing himself, and there's not a moment to waste.”

~~~O~~~

Bethany and Norris Whitmore waited impatiently on the judge's doorstep for an age before a light came on and one of the servants finally answered the door.

The man shook his head and waved his arms in the air apologetically. “Begging your pardon, ma'am, but it would be more than me job's worth to disturb His Honour at this ungodly hour. I can only suggest that you find a room for the night at a local hotel and return later. Shall we say seven thirty? The judge is always up at the crack of dawn.”

“No, we must certainly will not,” snapped Bethany, pushing past the door man and dragging Norris Whitmore into the hallway. “My client is to be executed at first light. Now get your arse in gear and rouse the judge. Don't worry, I'll take the flak.”

“On your head be it, ma'am; on your head be it ....” the man shrugged, spinning on his heel and heading off across the hallway and up the wide, sweeping stairs. Forgetting his manners and undoubtedly peeved by her, he did not have the courtesy to invite them to wait in the reception room, so Bethany took that upon herself. Whitmore was growing more agitated by the minute and she grabbed hold of him by the shoulders and guided him to a nearby armchair. “For heaven's sake sit down, Norris, before you wear the carpet out or drive me to distraction.”

“Now, take deep breaths and tell me your story again. It's late; I'm tired, and I need to get this straight in my mind.”

A few minutes later, a rotund figure emerged in the reception room with the door man following on behind, wringing his hands. It was Judge Meyers and they stood up to greet him. He was still in his dressing gown and nightcap and his features looked even more grizzly beneath a rough stubble.

“Bethany, what brings you here?” he asked, striding across the room and pummelling her hand. “You must excuse Smithers. I told him that you would not come here at such an hour and demand to see me unless it was something of the greatest importance. So don't let me down and make a fool of me.”

“It's about the Foster case, m'lud,” Bethany replied.

The judge cocked his head to one side and scratched his stubbly chin, momentarily at a loss, and then the light dawned on him. “Oh yes, forgive me, I'm not fully awake yet.” He turned to Smithers. “Perhaps you might bring a pot of tea? No, best make it three strong coffees.”

The man bowed and scurried from the room and while he was away, Bethany had Norris Whitmore recount his tale. Face to face with a judge, he became more and more tongue-tied and Bethany had to coax the story out of him and guide his wayward thoughts. It was a long story and by the time Smithers had returned with their drinks, it was still not fully told.

“My word,” the judge nodded at length. “Well, that certainly does cast a whole new light on the case.”

“Then you'd be willing to grant Bradley Foster a reprieve?”

Judge Meyers cast his hands in the air. “If it were up to me, Bethany, I would grant a stay of execution while the matter was investigated more thoroughly ….”

She looked askance. “However ...”

“However, it's not up to me. The wheels are already in motion, my dear, and according to protocol, the only person who can offer a stay of execution at this late stage is the governor. In the past there were so many half-baked, last minute calls for a stay of execution that we had to put a stop to such shenanigans, you see.”

Bethany glanced at her watch. It was already gone four. “We're going to have to get our skates on, m'lud.”

The judge rose to his feet and peered at his own gold pocket watch. “Indeed. Look, leave it with me.”

“Leave it with me?” she gasped. The man could not be serious.

“No, no: you misunderstand. The governor is not going to do anything on my mere say so: he's sure to want to see you and to hear the story from the horse's mouth, as it were.”

“As protocol dictates ….” she echoed.

“Indeed, as protocol dictates, Bethany. So with that in mind, I think that the best thing to do would be for you and Mister Whitmore to drive over to the governor's residence post-haste and I'll phone ahead and brief him ….”

“And?”

“.... And Mister Whitmore, in view of your involvement in this sordid affair, kindly present yourself at the local police station tomorrow and explain to them what you've just told me. Perjury and conspiring to pervert the course of justice are most serious offences, you understand, and carry with them the possibility of a custodial sentence. And in the unhappy event that such perjury were to result in the wrongful execution of A.N. Other, well, I'm sure you figure that one out. The consequences would be dire for you both.”

“Now off you go, while there's still time. Smithers, phone the governor's residence and let me know the moment you get through.”

Norris Whitmore stood there cowering, as if rooted to the spot with trepidation, and Bethany grabbed hold of him by the arm and headed for the door.

4. Final prayers

They didn't go straight to the place of execution that morning. Instead, the guard grimly directed Brad to the tiny chapel close by, offering him a few brief minutes to meditate on what was about to happen; to atone for his sins and to pray for forgiveness and for mercy in the hereafter.

There was no heating in the chapel and no external windows to let in even a glimmer of natural sunlight and it must have been as cold as a morgue in there, which was quite fitting really, but Brad was feeling so physically and emotionally numb that he didn't notice as he knelt on the stone floor before the altar to pray.

There wasn't much more to say, really. Having spent the last thirteen days and nights waiting his turn on death row, he'd pretty much exhausted all the things he felt he had to say before he went on his way; and there was no longer much point in making further pleas for clemency. If God hadn't heard him by now, then he never would.

It was a forlorn hope, of course, but Brad did have the urge to speak to June. There were still a million and one things that he wanted to say to her and simply not enough hours in the day to voice them all. Still, if June could hear him, she'd at least get the gist.

Would he ever get to see June and Sophia again? That was one of those questions to which there was no real answer this side of the grave, though it was Brad's fondest wish and the one thing that kept him going and that was capable of bringing this trauma to a blessèd conclusion, however much all this hurt at the time.

Whilst he was locked in the cell, he had considered the possibility of cheating the hangman, as it were. The thought of suicide had cropped up time and again in his mind, especially during the long, lonely nights. But the powers that be had thought of that possibility, too. One of the guards would peer in through the tiny shutter every half hour to make sure he was still in the land of the living, and every possible means of suicide had been removed from the cell. There wasn't even a toilet chain or a seat cover in the cell, not even a plug in the stone wash basin; no wood to break into slithers, nor any metal cutlery with which to slash his wrists. Had he thought about it, he might have used the tin tray from his last supper, twisting the metal this way and that until the thing split due to fatigue, to reveal a sharp edge, but he had been too out of it by then to even care.

These last two or three days, Brad had been so physically tired and mentally and emotionally exhausted that he suspected that his gaolers had been putting some sedative in his food or drink to keep him calm and cooperative. It also seemed to have taken away any sexual urge or frustration, though chance would have been a fine thing. He'd served time in the army as a teenager and knew bromide, with which they liberally laced the baked beans, when they administered it. Well, at least being in solitary confinement on death row, he no longer had to watch his back for fear of buggery.

5. A last minute hitch

“Yes, Smithers? Don't stand there dithering on the threshold, man. Have you got through to the governor yet?”

“I'm afraid not, m'lud.” Smithers cast his eyes down. “All I'm getting is an engaged tone.”

The judge was already out of his chair. He strode into the hallway and snatched up the phone. He, too, dialled the number. The phone was indeed engaged. “Oh, confound it.” He stabbed his fat fingers on the cradle to break the connection and dialled another number. “Hello, operator? This is Judge Theodore Meyers. No, Judge Theodore Meyers. I'm trying to get through to the governor on a matter of the utmost urgency, but all I'm getting is an engaged tone.”

“Try again later? Madam, if I don't get through right away, there will be no later, at least not for some. You'll try the number yourself? Good. Yes, I'll hold the line.”

“Not engaged, you say? A fault on the line? Then do you have another number? I really can't stress how important this is. We have an innocent men on death row and I must get a stay of execution.”

“No luck? Then … then get me the prison warden.”

“All the lines down, you say? Oh, good heavens ….”

The judge slammed the phone down and spun round to check the time on the grandfather clock in the hallway.

“Smithers? Bring the car round to the front and keep the engine running while I dash upstairs to change. Which is closer: the governor's residence or the prison?”

Smithers stood there, with the car keys clutched tightly in his hand. “Six of one and half a dozen of the other, I'd say, m'lud.”

“Fat lot of use that is,” the judge muttered as he took the stairs two at a time. “Well, I'll give you five minutes to decide and I'll take your word for it. So don't let me down, Smithers.”

6. The long walk

All too soon, the guard knocked on the chapel door and coughed to attract Brad's attention. “Time's up, I'm afraid, Mister Foster.”

Brad got up off his knees and turned to face the man, his knees quaking beneath him. “'I'm afraid', you say?” He held out his trembling, manacled hands and forced a smile. “No, sir: I am the one who's afraid right now. You can but guess.”

“Be that as it may, sir. Time's pressing and there's only one thing you can hold onto now and that's what little remains of your dignity.”

Had Brad eaten his final supper after all – let's not mince our words – chances were that he would have shit himself by now, such was his fear, so dignity was the last thing on his mind.

The man averted his eyes and motioned toward the door. “If you'd come with me, Mister Foster ….”

Well, at least it was Mister Foster now.

The priest was there waiting for him outside the chapel, even though Brad had turned him away earlier. The priest would have stayed with him throughout that long, lonely night, had he wanted, and the man was there to walk by his side every step of the way to his final place of execution, before placing him in otherworldly hands. Of course, there was some comfort in the knowledge that we all repeatedly miss the mark in our lives, that we are all “in the same boat”, as it were; but Brad couldn't abide all the talk of paradise for the faithful, and brimstone, treacle and eternal damnation for the hapless sinner. Such sticks and carrots and acts of benevolent despotism were for asses, not humankind.

And this wasn't a matter of going to meet one's maker. Brad was confident that in a higher court his innocence would have shone through without having to be proven. God's judgement had been removed from the equation in his case, however. Like it or not, a lesser judgement had prevailed and he was to be sent down. Down with a capital “D”. Brad had been excommunicated, you might say.

7. The appeal

When Bethany arrived at the governor's residence with Norris Whitmore in tow, she expected to be greeted at the door and quickly ushered through into the governor's presence. However, as they walked up the wide marble steps to the main doors, she instantly knew that something was wrong. The place was shrouded in darkness. Having rung the front doorbell, she took just a moment to check in her hand mirror and quickly brushed her short auburn hair. Other than that, there being no time to apply fresh makeup, the governor would simply have to take her as he found her.

A night porter came to the door soon enough and, having heard Bethany's pleas, explaining that they had received no telephone call from the judge, the woman ushered them into a reception room. She went off to rouse the governor's aide and, having heard the story, he went off to rouse the governor himself. Again it was a matter of blessèd protocol, with no panic button to switch in an emergency override.

They waited for what seemed to be an age before the governor deigned to present himself, having taken time to wash and dress before descending the stairs. However, to his credit, before Norris' tale was half-told, the governor raised his hand to stop him in mid-sentence.

“I've heard enough for now,” the man told them, rising to his feet, “and it's clear to me that there must be a stay of execution. I'll phone the warden immediately and we can continue the story at our leisure.”

The governor looked at his watch and went over to the desk to pick up a telephone. He rattled the cradle several times before slamming down the receiver.

“The phone's dead,” he cursed, banging his fist down on the desk.

Bethany was on her feet already. “Then we must get to the prison straight away. How much time do we have?”

Again the governor looked at his watch. “Forty minutes. I'll scribble a note for the warden.”

“And how long will it take us to get to the prison?”

“Half an hour to the gate, I'd say,” the governor's aide, Brian, reported. “And longer to get to see the warden.”

The governor popped the note in an envelope and licked the seal. “You'd best take Brian with you, to cut through any red tape. Brian, you are to tell them in no uncertain terms that if they delay you, I will have their guts for garters, you understand.”

The man nodded gravely and turned to leave.

Bethany was already out of the door, with the aide running along behind. As for Norris, he'd only be a handicap and would have to look out for himself. There really was not a moment to lose.

8. The final moment

They came at last to the end of the dull grey and green corridor and the guard ushered Brad inside. The priest went in with him to say a final word: not so much last rites as an incantation to seal his fate. Inside the small room, in the centre, was a leather chair with stout metal arms and, without further ceremony, two attendants guided Brad to the seat and firmly clamped his arms and legs, so that he was unable to move or to resist.

To his right, the prison warden and a white-coated doctor were in attendance. The doctor had prepared the medication that would dispatch the prisoner and would insert the tubes into his veins and check that death had occurred, but it was the warden himself who would open the valves to pump in the drugs. The first would send the prisoner into a sleep – hopefully – and two others when they met and mingled would stop his breathing and his heart. And then the body would be handed over to the priest who would have it buried in an unmarked and unconsecrated grave in the prison grounds: that was the final indignity.

Just as the warden's hand went to the second valve, Brad saw the door open. A woman burst into the room, screaming at the warden to stop, but she came too late. Even before he'd put a name to the familiar face, Brad was overwhelmed by a terrible burning sensation in his head and passed out, and that was the last he knew this side of eternity.

Two: The nether region

1. The new arrival

When Brad came-to, he found himself standing in the centre of a vast, open, public square with a chill wind howling around him, and for a few moments he was quite disorientated. This place was strange and new to him, at least on one level; and yet on another, apparently deeper level, it seemed somehow familiar, even you might say, all-too familiar.

And then the memories came flooding back to Brad and he fell to his knees, overcome by the enormity of it all; at the sudden realization that there was, after all, an afterlife. He bent down and kissed the cold stone floor, oblivious to the sheets of rain that were blowing across the square.

“Here's another one,” he heard a voice call to his left and he looked up to see two men approaching, clothed in long, flowing saffron robes, which appeared peculiarly dry in spite of the rain. Only then did he realize that there were others around him; that he was the only one being subjected to this deluge, and then even that was gone, though the sky still looked ominously dark and thunder packed above him.

“Been blown a little off course, have we, sir?” the first of the two men enquired, taking Brad by the arm, helping him to his feet and guiding him across the open square. “Never mind, we'll soon have you sorted and sent on your way.”

“Which way?” Brad uttered, again not quite knowing what he was saying and yet left with a distinct but unfathomable and slightly disturbing feeling of déjà vu.

“Couldn't rightly say, sir,” the man replied curtly. “This your first time?”

Brad shook his head. “I don't know. I can't remember, and yet I'm not entirely surprised to find myself here,” he explained.

“I see, sir. Well chances are you've been this way before, then. Sometimes the recollection hits people like a ton of bricks and other times they're left scratching their heads and wondering. Give it time and maybe your memory will come back of its own accord. It's not something you can force. If you can't remember, then chances are there's a perfectly good reason for it, sir.”

“Where are you taking me?” Brad wanted to know as they reached the edge of the square, heading in the direction of an imposing granite building.

“Oh nothing to fret about, sir. Just have to get you processed, that's all. We'll have you out of here and on your way in a jiffy.”

Then: “Natural causes was it?” the other man, who had remained silent until this moment, enquired.

Brad couldn't quite recall what had happened to bring him to this place, and yet a part of him knew. “Wholly unnatural causes I'd say,” he blurted out.

“Oh, dear, dear,” the first man commiserated. “Still, we're all in the same boat here, sir: saint and sinner.”

They were at the granite building now and clambering up a steep flight of steps toward the main entrance.

“What is this place?” Brad wanted to know.

“You could call it a transit camp,” the second man replied. “Well, the whole mortal world is a transit camp, really, if you think about it. Some call this place the nether region. Ne'ther heaven, nor hell; just some place in between.”

Brad nodded toward the large double doors through which they were now entering. “And this place?”

“It's a processing centre. Like I said, they process you and then they send you on your way again. Sometimes folk stay a while to recuperate, but more often than not they're sent straight on.”

“On my way? Which way is that?”

The first man shrugged. “Up or down, sir. Up or down. It can go either way. All to do with weights and measures. But that's not for me to say. I leave that decision to the powers that be, and they're welcome to it, if you ask me. Wouldn't like that burden on my shoulders. At least not unless they paid me a whole lot more for my troubles. I'm not one of those folk who live and breath work, sir. Come clocking off time, I leave work behind me and don't give it a second thought.”

When the man said that, a memory came flooding back to Brad and he dimly remembered toiling for countless hours, even days and weeks; completely buried in his work.

It was as if the attendant had picked up on this thought. “Not good for the old ticker, that sir, and not easy on our nearest and dearest.”

Brad flushed with embarrassment, suddenly feeling quite naked in the man's eyes.

“But there's no point in fretting over spilt milk, sir,” the man added, the flicker of a smile crossing his lips.

At length, as they crossed the wide, open and slightly overwhelming marble foyer of the building, they came to a large octagonal work station set near one corner of the hall.

“Yes, gentlemen?” prompted a bespectacled receptionist, looking up from her paperwork. “Can I help you?”

The first man nodded in Brad's direction. “Just rounded up one of your strays. Got blown off course and ended up in the square,” he explained.

“Oh, I see. Thank you.”

“We'll leave the gentleman in your care, then, ma'am.”

The receptionist peered over the top of her half moon glasses and looked Brad up and down, and her expression suggested that she did not particularly like what she saw. Again, Brad felt naked in her eyes and uncomfortable. Then the woman spoke again. “I think perhaps you might take the um … gentleman along to Arrivals. Third door on the left down that corridor. They've been known to kick up a fuss or make a run for it, you see, and then I get into bother with the boss. I'd say take him straight along to Omega, but that's for the specialist to decide. Call it female intuition ….”

The first man tapped a finger to his nose in acknowledgement. “Right you are, ma'am. A nod's as good as a wink.”

“Omega?” Brad enquired as they briskly headed off across the foyer toward the corridor. “Is that some sort of grading system?” And if it were, then Omega was about as far from Alpha as you could get, which did not bode at all well.

“Oh, nothing to be alarmed about, sir,” the first man replied encouragingly. “We'll have you sorted out in next to no time.”

As they entered the room labelled “Arrivals”, a tall, thin man with his spectacles perched on top of his shiny bald head and a stethoscope round his neck came forward, shaking his head, as soon as he caught sight of Brad.

“No, no, not in here,” the man insisted. “This department is for the upgrades. You want the sub-basement. Same room, third on the left but two floors down. And if they ask, tell them that Doctor Samuels sent you.”

“Right you are,” the first man sighed, spinning Brad round on the spot and heading back to the foyer to find the stairs down to the basement.

“That sounded ominous,” Brad remarked.

The first man merely smiled. “No reason to fret, young sir. It happens to us all at one time or another and in one way or another. We get to play all manner of parts in the world. So keep your chin up: 'Worse things happen at sea,' as my dear old mother would say.”

He paused for a moment. “Tell you what, Jethro, you leave the chap with me. I don't know about you but I'm getting a bit peckish, so you nip off to the café and order a couple of bacon butties and coffee and I'll meet you there in around five minutes.”

The other man left them as they crossed the foyer and made for the stairs. There was an elevator close-by, but the first man confided in Brad that he found them too claustrophobic for comfort.

Four flights down, they arrived at the sub basement and as soon as Brad saw the door at the end of the corridor, he began to worry. It was reinforced by solid steel plate, with a flap in it at about head height.

The man tried the door, but it was locked, then he spotted a door bell and he pressed it several times.

“Yes?” a voice crackled over a loudspeaker just to the left of the door bell.

“Quentin Crapshaw,” the man replied. “I have a new arrival for you. Doctor Samuels sent us.”

“Come straight in,” the voice crackled. There was a loud buzzing and when the man again tried the door it opened. They walked inside and the heavy door closed firmly and locked behind them.

A white coated and rather severe looking attendant came out of one of the rooms further down the corridor and strode toward them. Again the man looked Brad up and down disdainfully, and Brad had to look away, unable to meet the man's frightfully direct gaze. It wasn't both of the man's eyes, just the one, and it seemed to penetrate him deeply, almost to the point of violating him. Finally the attendant turned back to Brad's escort. “Thank you for your help, Quentin. I think we can take care of Mister Feuster from here.” He motioned toward the door.

“Right oh,” the man nodded, turning to Brad as he left. He shook Brad's hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, nice meeting you, sir. You take care now and maybe we'll meet again under happier circumstances?” With that, the man turned and walked back down the corridor. He waited until the buzzing sounded again, signalling that the locking mechanism had been released, then he was out through the door and on his way.

“Right, Mister Feuster ….”

“Foster,” he corrected, though where that name sprang from, Brad had no idea.

“Whatever. If you'd care to follow me ….” the attendant said with a brusque wave of his arm and led the way. They walked straight past the door marked Arrivals and further down to the corridor. Stopping at a room labelled Assessment, the man brought out a key on a chain and unlocked the door. He reached over to flick on a light and ushered Brad inside.

“Do take a seat, Mister Feuster,” the man invited, pointing to a plastic chair standing this side of a heavy mahogany desk, before taking his own upholstered seat opposite.

“Foster, for heaven's sake: F.O.S.T.E.R, Foster.”

“We have you down in our records as Feuster. Bradley Feuster; and the records are regularly more accurate than our patients' post traumatic memory.”

Brad waved his arms in the air in exasperation. “Trust me, your records are wrong.”

“Whatever.”

“'Whatever' you say? What kind of an attitude is that? Accurate and verified records should be one of the linchpins of your profession, Mister ….”

“Doctor,” the man corrected, though he didn't give a name. “I could well say the same thing to you, Mister Foster. Anyhow, this won't take long,” the attendant informed him. As he spoke, he scribbled a word down on his notepad and drew a ring around it. The writing was upside down to Brad, of course, but it quite definitely spelt the word “belligerent”.

“I thought that I'd be seen by a specialist?” Brad frowned.

“Oh, no need, Mister Foster,” the attendant smiled. “Your case seems to be pretty cut and dried, so there are only the formalities to go through. You can request a second opinion, of course – that's your right – but the consultant, Ms. Mercer is certain to endorse my diagnosis and recommendations, so you would merely be postponing the inevitable. And to show a lack of cooperation would only further exacerbate matters, if you get my drift? You've been convicted of a capital offence and excommunicated. Really, there's only one option in such a case and that is to send you down.”

Those words carried with them a distinct threat. Brad shrugged his shoulders. “Okay, let's get it over with.” Then: “Tell me, what do they mean when they say that I am to be excommunicated?”

The attendant finished signing the document before him, put down his pen and peered into Brad's eyes. “Mister Foster, it means that you are to be afforded no assistance whatsoever when you are sent down. It means that you are on your own in what we term the Last Chance Saloon. So your life – which will undoubtedly be tough – can go one of two ways: you either learn to swim for your life, or else you sink into the murky depths, never to grace these halls again. Which way it goes will be entirely based on your own efforts. As I say, you can either sink into the primeval sludge from whence you came or you can grasp the opportunity to redeem yourself.”

“Now, if you'd just sign on the dotted line.” The man passed the paper and pen across to Brad and when that was done, he pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. “Mister Carter? Would you send the nurse in now, please?”

“The nurse?”

The man made no reply and shortly after a uniformed lady in horn-rimmed spectacles with lenses as thick as jam jar bottoms appeared, carrying a shallow metal dish. In the dish there was a small syringe.

“Right, Mister Foster, if you'd care to take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve.”

“What's that?” Brad wanted to know, growing alarmed. Needles had given him the creeps from a tender age.

“Oh, it's just something to ease your passage, Mister Foster. There's nothing to be alarmed about.”

“You know, you're making a terrible mistake,” he blurted out. “I swear to God, you're condemning an innocent man.”

Neither the attendant behind the desk nor the nurse appeared to heed his words.

When the needle bit into his flesh, Brad fully expected that after a few seconds he would simply pass out, but it wasn't like that at all, it was far more shocking. His whole body felt like it was burning, as if the woman had drenched him from head to foot in caustic paint stripper.

“You'll just feel a little hot,” he heard her calling in the distance.

A little hot? Whatever was in the syringe appeared to be stripping all the memories and the thoughts from his mind. A terrible memory would bubble up to the surface and explode violently in his face, searing him at one moment and chilling him to the bone in the next, before finally fading away, only to be replaced by yet another, more horrible and traumatic than the last.

“Oh, Alicia have mercy on me. You know I didn't do it!”

Brad thought he heard a distant voice in the room whisper to another: “Do you think perhaps there's been a mistake?”

“Don't speak a word of this,” hissed the other.

“But the man needs help.”

“How was I to know? The man was so well camouflaged.”

“You really should have brought in the consultant, who actually knows what she's doing. But no, you're so damn cock sure of yourself. Get help for him while there's still time.”

“No. Not now, not ever. If Mercer found out, she'd have my head on a chopping block. You're not to breathe a word of this to anyone, do you hear?”

“But the arrival is still on record ….”

“Well, that's easily sorted. Look again. What record? This event never happened, do you hear me?”

“If you ask me, John Higgins, you're the one who should be sent down and not that poor bloke.”

“Well I'm not asking you, Nurse, I'm telling you. So you can piss off next door and send in the next on the list.”

But that afterthought came all too late. By now the stuff was even stripping away Brad's identity, until he felt utterly empty like a hollow reed and quite naked. And slowly but surely the substance was dissolving the world around him, too. There was no wonderful pearly light at the end of the proverbial tunnel for him, though; all that remained was utter blackness and anguish and desolation, and even this finally gave way to oblivion … which was perhaps a blessèd release.

Three: Life on the flipside

1. The early days

Tenzing Jangbu Rinchen was only six when his mother and father brought him to the Freelands to escape the troubles that had beset Narayana[1] since the invasion. His father was already in his fifties and his mother in her forties; they barely spoke a word of the Freelanders language and they knew so little of this culture's newfangled ways, so it was a real struggle for them. Fortunately, Tenzing was still at the age when he was able to soak up the culture like a sponge. Looking back, he could see that at this time he was still very much at the infantile suckling stage and it was only later that he learnt how to chew on his experiences and discriminate between the meat, the fat, the gristle and the bone; let alone extract the life-bringing marrow.

It wasn't until Tenzing's twelfth birthday that he was initiated into the ancient Tradition and not until his fourteenth birthday, the age of majority when he left school, that he found out about the Network, a charitable wing. In those days, only the rich could afford to keep their children at school beyond their fourteenth year and most were immediately sent out to work at the local mines and mills or to work for local tradesmen in order to bring home money to put food on the family table. This was not long after the second Great War and times were hard, even in the Freelands, and it would take another whole generation before the post-war austerity began to lose its bite. As for the Outlanders, or so he was told, life was even more intolerably grim. In the Freelands they complained that they could not afford to put meat on the table every day, and had to pad their meals out with cheap and filling food; whilst in the Outlands there were many who could barely afford meat at all, unless they lived out of town and could snare the odd rabbit or catch the odd fish. In those days, there were always poor folk being brought up in the local courts, accused of poaching. Poach game birds or rabbit and you could expect to have the fingers of your right hand amputated, which to the manual working class would prove as harsh a punishment as imprisonment or death, and far more cruel. Poach a deer and … well, the sentences even in the Freelands were said to be too severe and grotesque to report. More than punitive, they were designed to be a strong deterrent for others of the same ilk or inclination. The name “Freelands” didn't mean that anything went, nor that the land was as truly free and democratic as its founding fathers wanted folk to believe; it derived from the fact that after the first Great War, the land had been freed from dependency upon that even more despotic regime, the Chongen Dynasty, who had held vast swathes of the western world in chains and servitude for the five previous centuries. Having said that, given the abysmal state of life outside that realm, and being reminded of the old adage of seeking refuge at any port in a storm, it was nevertheless the place to be.

Sonam was the latest in a long line of mystical Masters in the East, linked together by a chain of succession which reputedly spanned millennia.

These mystics infrequently referred to their operations simply as the Way, the Path or the Tradition, though they had gone through many outward changes over the years, as always tailoring their operations in accordance with time, place, people and circumstances. The schools they founded been known by many craft names such as the Spinners, the Weavers, the Designers and the Masters, and some of them took names for themselves like the Charcoal Burner or the Chemist, such words carrying encoded, initiatory and explanatory meaning for those in the Tradition. They would refer to, and recognize, their fellows in other genuine and legitimate denominations and streams as “We Friends” and as “People Like Us”.

The outward appearance of these mystics, their schools and the practises they carried out varied enormously from one school and one master to another. Some worked largely alone, perhaps never taking on their own students; some formed schools or worldly commercial, cultural and charitable enterprises. Some wrote poems which carried deep, mystical content, the true meaning and realization of which might come about only after many years of study and life experience; some wrote instructional or religious texts; some worked at apparently mundane occupations, never once mentioning the Tradition. Sometimes these Masters were able to work openly in tolerant societies; and sometimes, under repressive regimes, they had to work in secret.

There were, however, certain fundamental things these mystics all held in common. One of their fundamentals – a goal for some still in the early learning stages and a way of Being for others – for example, was a love of, a direct communion with, and a harmonious attunement with the benign Source of All Being. Much of the learning they underwent and many of the esoteric exercises they carried out, were designed to bring them closer and closer to this goal of perfection. First a student would attune to and be connected with his or her own master; then with the school or stream and chain of transmission the Master represented, and eventually directly to the Source. There were no priestly intermediaries. And ultimately, it was far more than a mere connection and attunement to the Source; it was the profound Realization of unity of purpose and Unity of Being with the Source, with no room left for the separation of "I and Thou".

Whilst most of these masters had been physically taught and initiated by their predecessors in this chain of succession, there were breaks in the chain. Some had been taught and initiated by subtle and direct means, and had risen in the ranks and taken on the mystics' noble mantle without ever physically meeting their teachers.[2] Indeed such long distance or remote teaching did occur in all ranks from time to time, mind to mind and heart to heart; though to emerge as a one of the Elect in this way alone, or by contact with the Source alone, was a rarity amongst rarities.

To arrive at this point, which might be likened to the arduous and dangerous traversal of a vast mountain range, was no mean feat. It required an admission of ignorance; patience and real effort; a great deal of unlearning; an outpouring of petty ego, pride, vanity, greed, envy and hypocrisy, so that something of real worth might take its place in the resultant “purged house”; and a submission to one's Master and to the Source's Design. So this was not a path for the half-hearted, for the lily-livered or for those eager to find out “What's in it for me?”

Though this parent Tradition had been around for centuries and was reputedly perennial, stretching back to the earliest times in human history – at least in the later stages of human evolution – the Network itself was a modern and fledgling manifestation. Those who had fled from Narayana and seen the suffering of the people in the lands surrounding the Freelands had been so moved by what they saw and experienced first hand, and so incensed by the despotic manner in which the Freelanders soon sealed their borders when faced by the inevitable influx of the needy, that they had set up an informal Network to help alleviate this suffering, at least in some small way.

At that time, the Network had no premises, and only ad hoc organization, and Tenzing's mother and father worked from a box room in their cramped apartment, a room too narrow to take a full sized bed. Few folk had a telephone in those days, even in the Freelands, and Tenzing could only marvel as his mother sat in that tiny, seedy room typing away for hour after hour on a heavy second-hand manual typewriter, organizing meetings and charity fund-raising events; keeping in touch with their brethren still in Narayana and with those in dire need both in the Freelands and beyond. It was a never-ending task for his mother and father.

And yet Tenzing could not help but think that even this was a piss in the ocean, if you'll excuse the vernacular. He'd voiced this concern to his father on one particularly frustrating occasion and his father had reminded him of the old proverb that “mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow”. What does it mean in the grand scheme of things? No doubt little. Nevertheless, if through their work they helped just one person, then the work would have been worthwhile. To that one person and their own loved ones, their help would be precious and priceless. So, yes, this toil was well worth the effort. Indeed, if one's heart was in a work such as this, then it could not been seen as toil, but as a simple act of loving kindness and compassion.

As news of their operation reached the Friends back in Narayana, regular and often anonymous donations began to arrive by post. It wasn't a lot of money, but it was sufficient to pay for Tenzing's father to leave his work washing up and serving at a local hostelry so that he could devote himself full time to this greater task; and, of course, this took some of the pressure off his mother. As for Tenzing himself, his father had decided that menial work in the community would serve him well and help him gain invaluable experience in life and, coming from a rather more rigid generation, that was the end of the matter. At the time, Tenzing found this hard to bear, though he could only dimly recall the relatively easy life they'd led in Narayana, being in the king's favour; yet looking back, these early days in the Freelands had indeed been the making of Tenzing.

It was in Tenzing's sixteenth year that the Master Sonam arrived in the Freelands. The Freelanders had always had a soft spot for the Narayani, not least for the help that these people had given them in the first Great War, the war of independence, though this had not prevented the Freelanders from closing the eastern border. However, following the personal intervention of the Narayanan king, Sonam had been granted an entry visa and, with a little more pulling of diplomatic strings, he had been granted a coveted Beta Class work permit. At the time, those who had emigrated to the country prior to the closing of the borders, had been retrospectively granted only Delta Class. What this meant, in these protectionist times, was that these people would be permitted to engage only in menial work, with a maximum – rather than a minimum guaranteed – hourly wage. And, in the case of those who had already taken more highly paid work or even set up their own businesses ... well, they'd simply have to downgrade their employment or sell up.

Narayana had always been a poor country, if you measured it in terms of per capita income rather than its hugely rich cultural heritage; though the crown estates had always been immensely rich. Then came the invasion, and much to the Narayani dismay the Freelands stood by and let it happen, unwilling to commit themselves to another long and costly war. The king had managed to smuggle some of the riches abroad and still more was rumoured to be safely stashed away in the largely impassible mountain ranges to the north, but so much had been plundered and smashed by the greedy and atheist invaders.

Nevertheless, when Sonam came to the West, the crown's coffers had been opened to him and, as a representative of the Work, he had been granted quite considerable funds. What he was given, however, would have to last him. Beyond this initial handout, whatever enterprises he set up would have to survive on a mixture of sound investment, the generation of their own income, fund-raising and charity.

And what was the first thing the man did when he settled in the country? He bought himself a vast and expensive detached mansion with its own extensive grounds, in the suburbs of Sher Point, the capital city of the Freelands. That was Tenzing's father's initial reaction, of course, and Tenzing himself had shaken his head in disbelief on hearing this news. But in that moment, they did the Master Sonam a grave injustice.

Shortly afterwards a letter came, inviting the family to a meeting at the manor house. Still rather perturbed by these events, Tenzing's father had considered ignoring the letter or sending a polite reply declining the invitation, but fortunately Tenzing's mother talked him round and, in spite of these lingering reservations, they made their travel plans and set out for the city.

Almost as soon as the family met Sonam, however, their hearts melted. He was such a warm and caring man. And as soon as he spoke of his plans, which were clearly better thought through than they might have imagined, they could see that they were in the presence of a truly inspired and well guided Master of the Way.

Foxholes, as the estate was to be called, was not to be his personal residence – Sonam made this quite clear at the outset, though it was important that the Freeland authorities should see the place in this light – it was to be a refuge and study centre for the needy. Of course as soon as they heard these words, a worried look crossed Tenzing's father's features, but the wise Sonam had already thought of this. The Network which Tenzing's parents had set up would not, as they feared, be taken out of their hands or wound up.

On the spur of the moment, perhaps in a moment of great clarity, Tenzing's father spoke up. “Master Sonam,” he began, clearing his throat. “Your needs are greater than ours. With that in mind, and with apologies for the meagre nature of the gift, I place the Network in your safe hands.”

His father paused, nervously awaiting a reply, the sweat glistening on his forehead.

Sonam smiled. He stood up, went over to Tenzing's father and gently patted him on the shoulder. “I would be delighted to accept your generous gift; but fear not, brother. I won't steal your baby away from you. I know how long and hard and tirelessly and unselfishly you've all worked.”

The man waved his arms around him. “This is a vast house and there is so much work that needs to be done. I'm the new boy here and I'm sure that there is so much that I can learn from you about the Freelands ….”

“Look, I won't hold you in suspense. If you are willing, then the three of you are welcome to up sticks and move here to continue the work for the Work. How's the saying go? Mighty oaks from tiny acorns grow.”

When he heard those words, Tenzing could feel the hairs on top of his head bristling and standing up on end. His father again rose to his feet, apparently overcome with emotion, and wiped a tear from his eye. For a moment he was simply lost for words, and then, on the spur of the moment, and pumping the Master's hand up and down, he gladly accepted Sonam's own generous offer.

And that was that. Within the month, they'd moved into Foxholes to begin work and, a few days later, Sonam took Tenzing under his wing as a novice in the ancient Tradition. This was an example of just how well things could go when well oiled and in harmony with the greater Design.

One of the first and most abiding lessons that Tenzing learnt from Sonam was: never ask anyone to do anything that you're not prepared to do yourself. Far from being aloof, the new Director of the growing Network was always prepared to roll up his sleeves and muck in with the others; even to “muck out” their new gaggle of hens on the allotment. From the very beginning, self-sufficiency was one of their primary aims, so the livestock and the vegetables came first and the lovely but less essential things such as gardens and manicured lawns would follow on behind.

In those days, there were so few of them in comparison to the amount of work that had to be done, that they rarely found themselves at a loose end. They might be called upon to work on any aspect of the project or to fill in for others at any time and at a moment's notice, so they had to become flexible and bend with the wind.

Slowly but surely their numbers grew, however. Some of the early students through their doors developed particular prowess in various disciplines, and when it came for their time to move on, they were invited to stay on as members of staff, either to help maintain the place or, though much less frequently, to teach others who came after them. And, though most of those who passed through their doors had no idea whatsoever of the mystical Tradition behind Foxholes, a few also went on to carry the work for the Work into the community, so that more of the needy might find their way to the study centre. More importantly, these people would eventually move on from there to a better life, and themselves begin to act as a wholesome and much needed leaven in post-war western society.

One of their first graduates was Louis Barker. Louis was never going to become an initiate or a “high flyer”, at least not in this lifetime, but he showed great flair and near-military discipline when it came to manual work and in organizing the chores. So when Louis came to leave, Sonam invited him to become the school caretaker and he and his waxed cork floors shone, both figuratively and literally.

Louis Barker was a little too full of himself and he could be an awkward chap, which earned him the not-so affectionate nickname “Jobsworth” amongst the younger students. One of his favourite responses when asked for a favour was “Ooh, I don't know about that: more than me job's worth”, out of fear that granting the favour might land him in Matron's bad books, which was, true enough, always a danger for any of them. Louis had his stroppy moments, too, though he really was one of those whose bark was worse than his bite, and he wasn't such a bad chap when you got to know him, if you were prepared to make allowances on the basis that we all have our quirks, our foibles and our shortcomings.

Matron herself – a quite formidable, organized and dynamic lady – was another of their early recruits. She didn't appear to have a first name, nor even a family name, being referred to and referring to herself simply as “Matron”. Again, she wasn't the easiest person to get along with, and Tenzing did question Sonam's choice at times; and yet the Master must have known exactly what he was doing in employing these people, so Tenzing could only guess that there must have been good reason or “right guidance” as Sonam would call it, behind this apparent madness.

Sonam was about the same age as Tenzing's own father, both quite tall, slim men with tanned and careworn skin, thick black hair and bright blue eyes. They came from a rather strict generation that had been through the terrible rigours of war, many of whom had suffered doubly, being unable to adjust to and to fully reintegrate themselves into what they perceived as the laxity of civilian life after the war. A more easy-going generation was gradually emerging from this chaos, but people like Louis Barker and Matron had perhaps been too influenced by their forefathers to fully break free. Such folk had been thrust into adulthood so early in adolescence, and their prior childhood years had been as much about training to become responsible and productive adults as anything. Such folk seemed to be stuck half way between the two old and emerging generations, in no man's land, only really “letting their hair down” and showing emotion when they were off duty with their peers and had a sherry or two inside them: and these two were seldom off duty.

Of course, Sonam's primary focus was forever on the work, and being full of energy himself, he worked them all quite hard. However, alongside this, he did encourage a great many other diverse cultural activities, and he would, from time to time, help organize entertainment and allow them to let off steam.

One thing that Sonam said one day perhaps answered that earlier question about the choices the Master made. “There has to be this 'bite' to life, Tenzing. You may not like it, and that's not unnatural; but it is required at times to jolt people out of their all-too-comfortable state of forgetfulness and sleep and assist the Current to flow.”

As the Master concluded these words he abruptly slapped his hand down on the desk between them. This was so unexpected that Tenzing nearly jumped out of his skin and the reverberation shook him to the core. For a time, after staggering out of the Master's study, his mind was left reeling.

Some teachers would use this kind of dramatic behaviour all the time, of course, in order to restore and maintain strict discipline, but not Sonam. If he used a shock technique, then he used it sparingly and wisely and in a prescribed manner. Were Sonam's vocabulary fashionable, then he might talk of “tough love”, but he wasn't fashionable, and in any case, that would describe only one facet of a multifaceted approach. His approach would appear complicated if one were to think it through in all its ramifications; and yet at the same time it was simplicity itself, in that all Sonam had to do – all any of them had to do – was to simply respond to the necessity of the moment, allowing the divine to sort out the detail. And that was far more easily said than done … until that is, perhaps after a decade or more of study and serious application, one came to the point when it became perfectly natural and not even “second nature” but nature itself.

Tenzing laughed, catching himself musing along these lines, adding more realistically: “... Or so the Master Sonam keeps telling me.” In his darker moments, Tenzing had to admit to himself that sometimes he despaired of ever becoming one of the Elect like Master Sonam – or, indeed, whether such a thing was even desirable.

And yet there was always some sliver of hope, for one thing Tenzing had noticed was that in spite of the fact that he frequently despaired of himself, Sonam never once gave any indication that he had given up on Tenzing, nor that he ever would. The Master appeared to possess – or be possessed of – near-infinite patience and compassion.

Even as Tenzing thought these things, he had a vision of Sonam standing before him, smiling and shaking his head firmly from side to side. “No, Tenzing, you mistake me for some kind of highly advanced man. I am not a patient man, though I may well have started out by attempting to cultivate this quality. I simply empty myself of myself and allow real patience and real love and real compassion to manifest through me. Or, for that matter, whatever else needs to make itself manifest for its own good reasons.”

“This is but a puppet show in the shadows, Tenzing. You don't need to do; nor do you need to not do. And though we speak of a Way or a Path and though travel is encouraged, you don't even have to go anywhere – at least not in the way you might think you need to go. You don't need to think, nor to invest something with a disproportionate amount of emotion, nor to believe in lieu of knowledge. That's how the mundane world bumbles along and muddles through the long night, but it's not at all how the Real World works.”

“See that – and I mean really see it, don't just think it or feel it or look at it – and you have glimpsed a little of Truth and of the Real World, my son.”

That in itself gave Tenzing cause to pause for thought, but the trickster had one more card up his sleeve, which rather trumped them all:

“But don't stop there at the learning how to learn or the knowing how to know or even the seeing how to see, my son; but pass beyond even that, in time, to the 'being how to Be.”

Of course, at the time that all appeared to be such a long way off, especially if one spent most of one's time with one's head up one's own backside, heading in totally the wrong direction.

2. The welcoming arms of the lesser world

George Edward Mackfee awoke abruptly, fear coursing through his veins as he was forcibly propelled from his mother's womb; impossibly squashed inside that strangely familiar pulsating red tunnel.

In that moment he had a fleeting memory, not only that these were the pangs of rebirth, which was cause enough for trepidation, but also that this tunnel led from the underworld to the light. But not toward that greater Light for which he still so fervently yearned, but toward the light of the lesser world of concrete physical incarnation. And in that moment he cried out, suddenly recalling also how he had been most grievously cast out.

Fortunately, these horrendous feelings gradually subsided and, like so many who had come before him, George slipped once more into a state of blissful ignorance as the midwife took him from the bed, cleared his congested airways, wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and returned him to the welcoming and grateful arms of his new found mother.

Life was unbearably grim for his mother and father after the second Great War, though being so young and knowing no other life, it was easier for George. What was left of the towns and cities of Hodweir, or the Outlands as they were known to others, gradually fell into a terrible state of rat-infested poverty and neglect, and the people were brutalized by the severe reparations they were forced to pay to the victorious Alliance.

The governmental coffers had been raided and were by now all but emptied and, since the Outlanders could no longer meet the regular payments they had been required to make, the former alliance increasingly took payment in kind: and that meant that the government in turn levied a crippling double tithe on its own people, taking their payment in much needed food crops and livestock and passing most of these on to the alliance.

Life had not always been grim for George's family. Though he'd only ever seen the place when his elder brother Fred had pointed the ruins out to him, the family had once owned a huge and stately detached house in what were once leafy suburbs.

“Wow, it's as big as a castle!” George had whistled as they'd wandered through the sprawling, scavenged ruins on that first occasion.

“Look and weep,” Fred replied, slowly shaking his head and his straggly brown locks of hair from side to side. “Only with beauty wake wild memories - Sorrow for where you are, for where you would be.”[3]

“Mother and father had their own servants, too,” his brother had added. He waved his arms in the air expansively. “This whole area was Hadley Manor and Father's father – our grandfather – was Lord of the Manor, until they lost it all. They had a lot of wealthy friends.”

George thought for a moment, then piped up. “But if they had a lot of wealthy friends, then how come they ended up poor like us?”

Fred shrugged his shoulders and guided George out of the ruins and onto the road. “Mother says that they were 'fair weather friends', George.”

“Fair weather friends? What's that when it's at home?”

“It means that when things get rough, they don't want to know you,” Fred explained.

“But that's not fair,” George huffed. “If I had money and a friend was in need, I'd help them.”

Again Fred shrugged. “That's grown-ups for you.”

“Father says these days, it's every man for himself. A 'dog eat dog world', he calls it,” George told him.

“Begging his pardon, but Father's wrong. It's not all about money, George. Even if you're not rich, you should still help others. That's what Mother keeps telling me. If you ask me, she's the one who's got her head screwed on straight in our house, so you'd do well to listen to what she has to say and, bless him, take what Father says with a pinch of salt.”

“But I don't like salt, Fred.”

His brother smiled and shook his head. “I don't mean that literally. It's just a saying, George. I mean that Father isn't always right about the things he says. But be careful to only think that in your head and not actually tell Father to his face, unless you want to feel his slipper on your bare backside.”

That slipper hurt and George needed no second telling. “Oh, I see.”

Fred patted George on the shoulder. “You will see, when your a bit older, little one.”

These were quite lawless times and all that was left by now of the trees that had once lined the streets were jagged stumps, the trees having been crudely hacked down, sawn into logs and sold on the black market for fire wood, whilst what few police there still were turned a blind eye or took a back hander. If a house stood vacant for more than a day or two, then the owner would as often as not return to find that their floorboards had been ripped up; or the lead and slates taken from the roof; even the copper pipework and the fixtures and fittings ripped out to be sold.

There had also been an expanse of park land nearby, but again all the flower beds had been dug up and now the whole area was given over to allotments where the local folk grew much-needed vegetables. George had suggested to Fred in one of his brighter moments that perhaps they might enquire about taking one of the allotments and grow food for the family, maybe keeping hens or breeding rabbits. They could even plant a few wild flowers to cheer up Mother. However, Fred had quashed that idea, informing him that sadly the allotments were for the residents of the suburbs who still had money to pay for them, and not for the “Bottom Enders” or “Pond Life” as they were known, like themselves. According to Fred, these people had set up their own vigilante residents' association and woe betide any non-resident who trespassed in their grounds. The lad recounted some grizzly details that scared the shit out of George. Fred did tell tall tales, of course, but George could see by the earnest look on his brother's face that he meant exactly what he said. Well, they wouldn't catch him and chop his willy off. Not for all the tea in Erigwid.[4] No way.

According to Fred, who'd heard it from their eldest brother Michael, who in turn had heard it from their mother, Father had owned his own business and been a proud man. But the business had been wrecked during the war; the house had reluctantly been sold, and after a series of sordid squats, they'd finally been moved to a tiny apartment in a long-deserted and now recently requisitioned cotton mill. George hadn't known his father, Sebastian in these earlier times, but what he did know was that he was now a broken man and that he had great difficulty these days in holding down even a menial job, and just as hard a time holding, and holding down, his liquor, on which he was growing increasingly dependent. Fortunately, though George had lost count of the times that she had threatened to leave, his mother was strong willed and hard working and it was she, and Michael who'd been sent out to work, who held the family together through these lean and hungry times.

One of the best things that Mother did for them – and Father could have, had he put his mind to it – other than to be kind and caring toward her children, was to teach them how to read and write. Of course, they didn't appreciate this at the time and they'd far sooner have been out playing amongst themselves. George simply had to take his mother's word for it that this, if anything, other than their own innate intelligence and common sense, would be their ticket out of the slums and into a better life. Mother took in a lot of quite menial work, of course, in order to help put food on the table, but she was frequently called upon to help out the other families in the tenements when they had to write official letters or correspond with distant family.

In time Mother, her friend Amy who was a herbalist and Joan whose father had been a clergyman, came to be affectionately known to the locals as the “Three Wise Women” and people would come from all across the town whenever they needed help with ailments or simple, common sense advice. Amy looked after the body; Mother, you might say the mind, and Joan ministered to the spirit. And this was decades before the phrase “body, mind and spirit” had been coined, let alone became fashionable talk.

Mother seldom charged for her time, but more often than not those she helped would repay her, albeit in some small measure. You might wake up one morning to find something on the doorstep wrapped in old paper and discover that it was a copper or two or even fresh fish or skinned rabbit. Maybe not a whole rabbit, but good meat all the same, and as much as these people could afford to gift her.

Nothing was wasted. Even the head and the eyeballs went into the stew pot and any leftovers and worn out cast-me-downs went to the rag and bone man who'd tour the area on his old horse and cart. And little urchins would patrol the streets with a bucket, keeping a sharp look out for any lumps the coal merchant – or his horse, for that matter – may have dropped. They'd race each other to get there first, and even get into fights over these meagre spoils. Almost every morning, too, at least before Michael started work, he and Fred would take their old buggy, made of old wooden packing cases and pram wheels, down to scour the beach and the nearby bays for drift wood, especially if the sea had been rough. They were on the lookout for anything they might salvage to sell or keep the home fire burning.

One day the lads came struggling up the road with the branch of a dead tree that must have been taller and nearly as broad as them. Working in shifts, it took them the best part of the day to saw that tree into manageable logs, even with the help of Father's recently sharpened and trusty, two man saw. Thank heaven for small mercies, Mother beamed, clasping her hands before her, there would be hot water enough for a bath that week.

“And to wash my socks,” George piped up. The smell even nauseated him and it was his smell and they do say that others notice these things a lot more than you notice yourself. It was the same with farts. If someone else farted, it smelt disgusting and yet if you farted yourself, it actually seemed to smell quite sweet. He'd asked Fred why that should be, but Fred didn't know either, except that maybe we got used to our own smell, like you get used to the ticking of a clock, and that the thing about farts was all in the mind. If you expected a thing to smell disgusting, then it probably would seem disgusting; and versi vica.

Then Fred confided in him: “Your feet do stink, though George, and that's a fact.”

“What's a fact?” he wanted to know.

Fred thought for a moment. “It means that it's the honest truth, George, and not simply someone's opinion or belief.”

“And what's an opinion?”

Fred sighed. “Hey, I'm not your personal, walking dictionary, you know. Take Mother's advice. If you don't know the meaning or spelling of a word – always, always look it up. Then one day you will no longer have to.”

“Please?” George offered, fluttering his eyelashes and looking beseechingly to Fred. When that failed, he gave Fred the stare, willing him to give in.

“You won't hypnotize me with those big brown eyes, George,” his brother replied, standing there with his hands on his hips and staring back just as hard.

“Pretty please?”

“Oh! Alright, alright: take a tomato. If I say 'it's tasty', what I mean is that I think it's tasty or feel that it's tasty. But you might take a bite and screw your nose up if you didn't like tomatoes. So then that's just my opinion and your opinion, it's not a fact. But if I said 'this tomato is red' – well, assuming that it's ripe, that is – then that's the truth, and we call that a fact.”

George looked askance. “But what if you were colour blind?” he pondered. “Or a cat? Or a bog-eyed monster from another planet? Maybe what we see as red looks like grey to them? Or bright blue? Or even like a rainbow in a kaleidoscope?”

Fred shook his head. “That's not likely.”

“But you don't know that for a fact, Fred. You just think you know. We might be surrounded by alien beings and ghosts and not even see them because they look invisible to us ….”

“Oh no, not your invisible friends again, George.” At this point, Fred sighed a deep sigh. He abruptly turned and walked off, stroking his hand through his long greasy hair and muttering away to himself about idiot brothers.

Fred didn't believe in George's invisible friends. None of them did and least of all Father, though at least he didn't scoff at the idea like Fred and Michael did. On more than one occasion, Father had asked Mother to have Amy or Joan have a look at him, but she was more sympathetic and had suggested that he was just a child and that he'd grow out of what Father termed his “wayward imagination” all-too soon. The innocence of childhood is short enough as it is, she'd reminded Father, so let the boy be.

“If you ask me, it's all those fairytales you keep feeding them,” had been Father's stern retort. “And fairytales won't put food on the family table.”

“Oh, begging your pardon, your Lordship – and nor will all that grog[5] you pour down your gullet,” Mother had huffed before storming off to the kitchen and wading into yet another pile of potatoes in need of peeling and eyeing. She performed that otherwise onerous task with particular gusto that day, showing the potatoes no mercy. There was only one good thing about Father's drinking. He could never be arsed to take his empty bottles back to the pub, so he or Fred would take them instead and share the few coppers they got as a refund.

“You're just like your father,” Mother added as an afterthought, standing in the doorway of the kitchen and waving her potato peeler in Father's direction. And those words, sharp as they were, visibly stunned the man. George had never met his grandfather, of course, though Michael was old enough to remember. Michael sometimes spoke of him, invariably referring to him as “Grumpy Granddad” and when Michael did speak of grandfather, he spoke of nothing but contempt; until, that is, Mother stepped in and berated him for speaking ill of the dead.

Being reminded in this way hurt Father, you could see that. He just sat there in his favourite armchair by the fire, shaking his head from side to side and wiping away a stray tear. Fred had told George something that Mother had said: that Father knew that he should pull himself out of the abyss in which he found himself, and yet though the spirit was willing, as the saying went, the flesh was weak. Much to his own chagrin, Father found himself unable to pull himself out, in spite of all the assistance that Mother patiently gave him. It wasn't, she'd said, that Father was a rogue or an uncaring man, but rather that he was a deeply troubled soul. If he had so little time for them, it was only that he was in some way “absent”, fighting his own demons, and that this terrible fight, a sorrow to behold, took up so much of his energy and his time, to the exclusion of so much else. That being the case, they should all help Father whenever possible, and pray for him. And they should also pray for their grandfather's soul, too, though quite why they should do that, Mother did not say, except somewhat cryptically, “so that he might rest in peace.”

It was only years later that George discovered that had their grandfather not gone out of his way to annoy the other residents on the manor (who had in much earlier feudal times been paying tenants, one might almost say surfs, even long after the Act of Abolition of Feudal Entitlement, to give the law its fancy title), the family might have received a more sympathetic response when they themselves hit hard times. He and his father before him had been vehemently opposed to such social reforms and to what they saw as the wanton dereliction of the proper class structure upon which society should be rightly based.

So, in a way, Mother and Father believed that the old man should shoulder some of the blame for the demise of their fortune. And it was people like their grandfather and the sabre-rattling Hooray Henrys who had brought about the second Great War which caused so many hundred thousand lives to be lost, and which eventually precipitated that demise. Well, the old man finally got his comeuppance, though it was they and countless other impoverished people who had been left to pick up the bill on his account.

That the people had been conned into believing that they were on the right side in a just war, too, when quite the reverse was found to be true: well, that really did add insult to injury. All there was in those days was the state-run and the state-sponsored print media and all the people knew was the propaganda with which they were fed. There was no news from abroad except that reported by the state press or in the heavily-censored letters sent back home by the troops. But come the day that Hodweir and their allies surrendered to the Alliance, only then did the countless atrocities come to light. It was no news to the Alliance, of course, nor to the victims of these heinous crimes, but it was news to the basically good people of Hodweir. And yet again it was the innocent who had to pay for the crimes dictated by a privileged few.

In times of war, when told to jump, a squaddie doesn't ask “Why, sir?”, but (if he dare ask at all), “How high?” Those critics who suggested otherwise, unlike the soldiers, by and large had not faced the threat of court martial and firing squad, should they disobey the orders of a superior officer. When the call came to leave the trenches and charge at the enemy across no man's land, for instance, that's what they did, whatever the odds; whatever the carnage; no matter how foolhardy they knew that order to be. And in case any should get half way, turn tail and run back toward friendly lines, there were always some of their own, most trusted men on hand. They had been given one task and one alone: to shoot any of their own men who displayed such cowardice in the face of the enemy. This wasn't, as one might imagine, an Outlandish thing to do, it was actually a tactic that had originally been used by the previous Alliance and observed in the first Great War, and borrowed from them for use in the second. This awkward truth was never mentioned during the war trials, nor in any subsequent report. The truth came out in one memoir, or so it is rumoured, but immediately upon publication, that book was abruptly removed from circulation and all copies of the work were bought up and pulped, at considerable expense to the Treasury. This was a simple fact known to countless men who had actually fought in that war, though many who had been through this hell could not bring themselves to recount their experiences to their loved ones, if and when they got back home; and yet it was not something that the powers that be wished to find its way into general circulation.

Nor did you hear anything but the most sanitized reports of what actually happened when a cannon shell exploded amongst a group of men in close company; in much the same way that people who tuck into a weekly roast with relish are cocooned from the grim and barbarous mechanics of the slaughter house. They know that at stage one there is a cuddly spring lamb and that at three, the latter stage, there is a lamb chop and mint sauce on their plate, and it doesn't take a genius to work out what must have gone on in between, after the little darlings left their holiday home on happy, smiley “Sunnyside Farm” ... and yet that connection is so rarely made. How ironic, isn't it, that something so welcome to the stomach would be capable of turning all but the most hardened or sociopathic stomach, but for a simple trick, an act of denial in the mind?

But this is grown up talk and at the time George was as yet in his infancy – a mere spring lamb himself, you might say – and he was largely and blissfully ignorant of the darker and hideous machinations of the Shadowlands, though of course the deprivation the family experienced primed him for what lay ahead.

3. Invisible friends

George had had vivid dreams for as long as he could remember. His earliest waking memory was of being laid in a pram in the passageway, and later of going into town with his mother in a push chair, so he guessed that in the first instance he must have been a baby and in the second, by then perhaps an early toddler, as yet unable to walk long distances, or at least not at sufficient speed for his mother's busy schedule.

One recurring dream he had involved getting down on his hands and knees and crawling into a long, dark tunnel. That's about all that happened in the dream, other than he dimly recalled that when he emerged through the other side of the tunnel he found himself in what appeared to be another world. Now, whether that was triggered by some distant memory of emerging from his mother's tummy, or by the strange tales she would read to him on a night, before tucking him into bed and blowing out the candle, George didn't know. It was only later on that he began to wonder such things, and by then most of his memory of these early dreams had long since evaporated.

That recurring dream did morph into another more elaborate one, however. It always began in the attic above their apartment. George had been up there once or twice with his father, once whilst he rooted around for something that they still had in storage there and once whilst Father tried to thaw out a frozen pipe. Although the attic was up in the mill's roof space and should by rights have had an angled ceiling, a flimsy partition wall had been built around it and a false ceiling put in, so the room inside the roof space was actually rectangular. Father himself had built this, during one of his more active phases before he turned to drink.

In case workmen required access to the roof and to get to the old cold water tank, Father had cut a couple of hatches in the flimsy walls, big enough for a man to walk through if he stooped low. And through one of these hatches, at least in the middle of the night, was a portal almost guaranteed to take George to another world when he stepped through it in his dreams.

In those days, George was at the mercy of his imagination when he dreamt; he had little control over whatever happened – except to wake with a start if the dream became frightening – and he almost always forgot the details when he awoke; even though whilst he was dreaming he often told himself that he simply must remember what had happened and what had been said to him, when he woke up. George would get quite annoyed with himself about this. However, rather than give this up as a bad job, it actually made him all the more determined to succeed at the task. And then the joke would be on Fred and Michael and not on him any more.

One day, George solemnly pledged, he would take in and remember the detail clearly; in fact he might decide to stay in that other world and not bother coming back at all. George had thought of running away on several occasions – not that he had anything against his mother or his brothers, of course – and he had thought that perhaps he might go to the Freelands. When it came to exactly how he'd provide for himself, of course, there the details were rather scant, but he was a clever lad, or so his mother kept telling him, and no doubt he'd find some job to earn his keep. Maybe peeling vegetables or washing up: he was good at that sort of thing.

And then one day, something quite extraordinary happened. One of the men he recalled meeting in his dreams actually spoke to him whilst he was awake and idly daydreaming. It was like having someone whispering in your ear hole, and George could barely make out that anything was being said, because his own thoughts were always so loud and chattery. So there was little George could do at the time other than tell the man to wait until night time when he was laid in bed; it was always a lot quieter there on the verge of sleep.

“You don't belong here, little one,” the voice gently assured him. Those were the first words that George could clearly make out, and when he heard them, a delicious quiver ran up and down his spine and made the hairs on his head stand up on end and raised goosebumps all over his arms.

“Thank you,” George whispered back, though in his head, not out loud.

“Thank you for what?” the voice seemed to enquire.

“I don't know, really. For, for ... for being here and talking to me,” George replied when he found the words.

“You're welcome, little one,” the voice returned gently.

He made a point of telling the man his name, George Edward Mackfee, and he asked the man's name, but when it came to questions like this, his own mind would start chattering all over again and his own ideas about what the man's name might be drowned out any that might have been a genuine response. So that's as far as things got on that first encounter and as George slipped into sleep, he quite forgot that anything had happened at all, telling himself what Father always used to say, that it was probably just his wayward imagination.

Mother thought otherwise. “No, Seb. I'll tell you what's brought this on. This is what happens when a father neglects his child: the child invents his own father figure to make up for that lack. And I ask you, can you blame the lad?”

Of course this quite took the wind out of Father's sails and gave him pause for thought. For a time, he tried to make up to them ... until the inevitable happened and he took to the bottle yet again. The man wouldn't admit it to others, of course, but he had a rather full and disorderly house in his own head to contend with.

This hearing voices, or rather thinking that he heard a voice and never being quite sure, went on for some weeks; and George began to get quite frustrated. In the end, he called out “Oh, for heaven's sake, can't you speak more loudly, so that I can hear you?”

He was in the street at the time, and a grey haired old lady with what looked like a knitted tea cosy on her head, who was passing, paused to give him the queerest of looks before shaking her head and walking on.

“Sorry,” George mumbled under his breath.

“No disrespect,” he added as an afterthought. This was one of Michael's favourite phrases, though in his brother's case he would prefix what he was going to say with those words and then go on to say something quite disrespectful, rather than add it afterwards, by way of apology. George couldn't recall a single instance in which his rather outspoken eldest brother had apologized to his father – or to anyone except Mother, for that matter – whilst for his part he was forever going around saying sorry for things he'd said or done. Even for things he hadn't done.

There was another recurring nightmare that George was having these days, and it was happening more and more, to the point where he was actually becoming afraid to go to sleep. In that dream, he was always being accused of doing something wicked, and even though he couldn't recall having done any such thing, nobody would believe him, and then the policeman would come and grab him by the arm, drag him off down a long stone corridor, throw him in a cell and slam the door in his face. He'd tried and tried to find a way out of that cell, and he should have been able to, since it was his dream, after all, but he never could. All he could do was wait and wait until he stopped dreaming or the fear woke him up in a cold sweat.

“Look out!” that familiar voice called out and, his head cast down at the time, he looked up sharply to see a horse drawn coach bearing down on him at a frightful lick. So much adrenaline was pumping into his system that all George could do was stand there, shocked to the core and rooted to the spot like some poor rabbit at dead of night staring goggle eyed into the glare of a torch.

At that very moment, an arm reached out and dragged him from the road, pulling him over backward and sending him and his saviour sprawling in the gutter. It was Father.

“By God, that was a close call,” his father said, drawing in a deep breath and blowing it out with a sigh. He stood up, pulled George to his feet and brushed himself down.

“Thanks Dad, you're a life saver!” George gasped. He was by now shaking like a leaf in the breeze and trying to breath slowly and deeply to calm himself.

“For heaven's sake, lad. I shudder to think what might have happened. You should watch where you're going and not go wandering around in a ruddy daydream.”

George cast his eyes down. “Sorry, Father.”

Then a thought suddenly occurred to him. Minutes earlier, he'd seen Father heading off down the road and they'd waved to one-another, but not spoken. “I thought you were off to the pub,” he pointed out, when he'd recovered his own composure.

“Something told me something was up,” the man told him. “So I came back to see if you were all right. And damn lucky I did. Wandering into the road in a ruddy dream with your head down, my lad.”

“What told you?” George wanted to know.

His father shrugged and surreptitiously straightened his ill-fitting toupee before anyone spotted the glaringly obvious bald spot on top of his head. “I don't know. A premonition maybe. Something told me you needed help.”

“You mean someone told you, don't you, Father? So you heard it, too!” George beamed.

Father shook his head vigorously. “I don't know what you're talking about. I heard no such thing, young 'un, so you can thrust that foolish notion out of your mind for starters.

“Now off you go home. If your mother asks after me, tell her I'm down at the Two Swans and that I'll be back in time for supper. Tell her I've got my key and that she needn't wait up.”

Mother didn't have to be a mind reader, nor for George to tell her, to work that out.

When Father had gone on his way, George stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. “Thank you,” he mouthed.

“You're welcome, little one. Now do take care,” the voice whispered back. And then quite unexpectedly the man added. “Let me tell you something in this rare moment of clarity. A powerful occasion which has probably been brought about by the shock you've just received.”

“Hang on a minute. How do I know I'm not just making this up in my own head, like Father says I do?” George wanted to know.

“All you can do is trust me.”

“Well, I'll try.”

“Have I ever asked you to do anything bad or wrong?”

“Well, no, though I sometimes think bad things myself.”

“Then please trust me, and if you hear a voice telling you to do anything you don't want to do or know is wrong – unless it's criticism that you truly deserve and need to hear – simply dismiss it and pay attention only to the wise and loving voice in your mind. I'll tell you where the confusion lies. There are two things. The first is that you have got into the habit of chattering away to yourself in your mind all the time, and that's a deeply engrained habit over which, as yet, you have so little control. Having said that, I can see how you are perhaps using this to cocoon yourself from the grim realities of life; but at the same time, it also prevents you from engaging with the good things of life wholeheartedly.”

“And the second is that I am having to talk to you indirectly. You might liken this to me talking to someone in one room – and that someone is actually you, too – and this person has to interpret what I am saying and pass messages on to you in another room. And so you're not hearing my real voice, or even the exact words that I'm using, or even the exact meaning: you're hearing your own voice and your own interpretations of what's actually happening.”

“Let's say that I use the word 'love'. And when this other you in the other room relays the message to you, he may say the word 'red' instead, if he associates the word love with the colour red. Now, when you hear the word 'red', you might associate that word word 'red' with anger. And so you won't get my actual message, which is that of love; you will think, let's say, that I am talking of anger. I don't expect you to understand this, and it's actually a lot more subtle than my crude example, but you get my general drift?”

“Yes sir, thank you. I think that I see what you mean.”

The voice laughed. “Out of the mouths of babes. Indeed, that is it in a nutshell. I think that I know or I think that I see. It is that unnecessary and muddled thinking that stands in the way of simply knowing or simply seeing. And there are those who would say I feel that I know, rather than simply and directly knowing. So real experience is filtered through and distorted by this thinking and feeling and not experienced directly as it really is.”

“And there is this, also. As a thinker, you may choose to pay attention only to what you either agree with or perhaps disagree with; and the feelers will tend to pay attention to only that which excites or repulses them in some way. But, you know, there are people in the world, albeit that they are in a minority, who do see life as it really is, and you would do well to seek out the company and tutelage of these people.”

“Well, can't you simply point me in their direction?” George enquired.

“These people are like gold dust, little one, and just as difficult to find, unless you become a miner yourself. And you'll find that for every nugget of real gold, there are a thousand tantalizing imitations. Many are harmless enough and merely misguided; some are seriously deluded; some are quite dangerous charlatans, and there are always one or two particularly charismatic and deceitful types who can only be described as evil incarnate. So this is more easily said than done.”

“But don't worry, little one. It's perfectly natural that you should find this confusing and we can sort this out in time. You need time to develop and to learn how to quieten your mind and be more attentive, I can see that. So if you don't hear from me again – for days, weeks, months or even years ahead – it won't be because I have forsaken you. And yes, it could take that long and there will be many, many times of forgetfulness in the intervening periods. Nevertheless, I will always be here for you, little one, though you may not know this. So we will both have to be patient and bide our time. Do you understand?”

“Yes, thank you,” George nodded. “Yes sir, I understand.

“Was it you who once told me that I don't belong here?” George wanted to know, suddenly recalling that first encounter.

He didn't see the man nod, but he felt himself nodding his own head. “Yes, I do recall.”

“And do you know why, sir?”

“No, I still do not understand why that should be, little one; though given time, I aim to find out. As I said, however, such things are still but distant possibilities.”

“Let me offer you one final piece of advice, if I may,” the voice added. “You should engage with your father. What I sensed from him in that fleeting moment of clarity was that once upon a time he, too, was more awake than he is now and that he's since strayed from the path and cast all this – and himself – into the deepest, darkest recesses – the dank dungeons, if you will – of his mind.”

“Talk to your father about his younger days. It's possible that his own memories may be stirred, and he may be able to help you to still your own mind, and to re-still his own in the process. That would greatly help you both.”

George shrugged. “Alright, I'll give it a try, though I can't promise anything.” He and his father were not exactly best mates.

Again, George felt his head nodding gently. “I understand perfectly.”

True to his word, George tried to engage his father in conversation on several occasions after that, but alas it led nowhere. Father simply would not talk about his own childhood or even his adult past. Indeed, George did wonder if Father had deliberately shut and bolted the door on such experience, perhaps because the pain of being reminded of the high life of former times had been too much for him to bear? And what pained George all the more was that he could see this, and yet he was unable to help Father in any way.

“You know,” said a voice in George's head one day, in another rare moment of clarity, “We have a wise saying in our Way, and it is this: 'Some doors can only be opened from the inside.'”

“Especially if they've been bolted on the inside,” George offered.

“Indeed, little one,” came the quiet reply.

4. Dare devil escapades

At the time, of course, George swore to himself that he would never forget the encounter that day, and every day he resolutely attempted to make contact again. But you know how things are. As the weeks and months went by and he received no further reply other than the constant chatter of his own mind, and as his worldly interests began to blossom and take up most of his time, gradually that resolve slipped, until finally it was gone. This happened so gradually, of course, just as the physical growth of a child goes on unobserved from day to day, that he didn't even notice, let alone mourn its passing. Others, however, not having clapped eyes on him for quite some time and remembering in their minds what he had been like when they had last seen him, they would have been able to spot the changes, however.

These last couple of years, George's nearest brother and erstwhile playmate, Fred, had put on a bit of a spurt, leaving him lagging behind. It would be a year or so before Fred would be sent out to work and, finding new friends in the neighbourhood, and determined to make the most of his youthful freedom, he was seldom around the house now; leaving George home alone with Mother and Father and feeling quite lonely and resentful.

Finally, however, there came that time in George's life when he began to sprout anew and, noticing this one day, Fred went out into the hallway and returned with George's coat.

“Are we going somewhere?” George wanted to know, perplexed by what appeared to be a sudden change of heart. These days, it seemed like Fred would rather be seen dead than with his kid brother.

“Yes,” Fred nodded eagerly, impatiently helping him on with his coat. “I think it's time you met the gang.”

“The gang?” George queried, as Fred bustled him down the hallway and out of the house.

“You'll see. Now get a move on, George. It's gone quarter past ten already and if we miss meeting up at eleven, we'll have to scour the town to find the others. And you'll get me in trouble with Hatchet.”

“The others?”

“Like I said, the gang. Now I can't promise that they'll accept you and let you join, but rest assured that I'll put in a good word for you.”

“Does your gang have a name?” George wanted to know.

“Yes we have a name: the Hockney Dare Devils.”

Well Hockney was clear enough: that was the name of their end of the town, and that would account for the initials “HDD” drawn in blue ink on the shoulder of Fred's old jacket. “But why Dare Devils?”

“Questions, questions. Always questions, George. You'll find out soon enough. Unless you're a yellow belly, of course, and then you'll find out all too soon,” Fred retorted, with a mischievous grin.

That sounded ominous. “Sorry.”

“And stop saying sorry all the time, unless you want that as your gang nickname.”

George just caught himself apologizing again, in the very nick of time.

He dabbed his finger on Fred's jacket. “Okay, I know what 'HDD' means now, but what does 'Five Fs' stand for?”

Fred sighed deeply. “Find 'em; feel 'em; finger 'em; fuck 'em and forget 'em.”

George stuck his tongue out and pretended to vomit. “Fred, that's an awful thing to say. If Mother found out …”

Fred took hold of him by the collar and breathed in his ear. “Well she won't, will she? Not unless you snitch on me.”

The brothers quickly crossed the town and Fred led him along a narrow lane and down a narrow, garbage-strewn and rather smelly alleyway. They stopped abruptly in front of an old door set into the wall, the yellow paint peeling off the door. Fred drew in a deep breath and knocked three times in quick succession and shortly afterwards George heard someone inside clattering down the stairs to open the door for them.

It was another lad, about their own age. George seemed to recall seeing him in town, but he didn't know his name.

“Don't hang about,” the lad hissed. “There've been rozzers[6] about recently and if they catch us here, we're buggered.”

Well, that was a good start, I must say. If Mother had heard them use such words, she'd have made them wash their mouths out with soap.

Fred pushed George inside.

“Who's this?” the lad wanted to know, nodding disdainfully in George's direction. “You know Hatchet doesn't like strangers coming here.”

George didn't like the sound of this 'Hatchet', whoever he was.

“George, meet Daz, one of the gang. Daz, this is George, my kid brother. He's here to join, if you'll have him, that is.”

George stuck out his arm, hoping to shake hands, but the lad ignored him and turned to go back upstairs. Well, “welcome” to you, too.

“Is this the gang's den?” George enquired, as he followed Fred up the steep, bare wooden steps.

“It's our hideout,” Fred nodded, “and you mustn't breathe a word of this to anyone. Cross your heart and hope to die.”

“But what if the owner finds out?” George enquired.

“This whole row of houses has been condemned and they're going to be knocked down,” Fred explained. “But the council and the police don't take kindly to trespassers, so not a word to anyone, you hear?”

“Right.”

As they reached the top of the stairs, the other youth, Daz, went ahead of them to announce their arrival. “Wait here until you're called. And when you are called, don't speak unless you are spoken to,” Fred requested, leaving George outside to twiddle his thumbs and fret whilst he went into one of the upstairs rooms.

George could hear voices inside the room and, pressing his ear to the door, he found that they were indeed discussing him. Then quite abruptly, the door was yanked open and he hastily stepped away.

Daz came out into the passageway. “Stand there,” he requested, and the lad reached out, slipped what looked like a black sack over George's head and what felt like a coarse rope, and dragged him forward into the room.

“Enter and stand before the gang,” a voice requested sternly. He was tugged further into the room and the door was firmly shut behind him.

“State your full name,” called another voice. It was his brother Fred.

“Don't be silly, you know who I am,” George retorted, his voice muffled by the thick black sack.

Someone tugged on the rope around his neck and repeated the request. “State your full name.”

“George Edward Mackfee,” he responded nervously.

“And who sponsors the aspirant?”

“I, Frederick Martin Mackfee, the aspirant's elder brother,” Fred replied.

“Then come forward and stand before your charge.”

“Aspirant, why do you wish to join the Hockney Dare Devils?”

George wasn't at all prepared for this question and he ummed and ahed and finally blurted out. “I don't know, really, I thought it might be fun.”

One of the others was close by now and George could almost hear him breathing in his face. He could feel something sharp, biting into his thin cotton shirt and he was shocked when he realized that it must be a knife. “Once you join the Hockney Dare Devils, there can be no going back,” the voice advised. “And you must never speak a word of this to any outsider. If you do, you will meet with a terrible and untimely end.”

As the voice said these words, George could feel the knife bite into his flash a little deeper.

“So, aspirant. Do you solemnly agree to abide by our rules and protect our secret? If you do not, then speak up now, and you will be taken from this place unharmed. What say you?”

“I, I agree,” George stammered.

As he said these words, George could feel the rope around his neck loosen and the black sack was abruptly pulled from his head, leaving him squinting in the glare of sunlight through windows in the room. He saw now that he was surrounded by half a dozen other youths.

“Then welcome,” the voice greeted him. That must have been the gang leader, Hatchet. The others were standing around George, but this older youth was still seated on a rather grand looking chair at the far end of the room, underneath one of the windows. It was a commode, the sort that old people would use when they could no longer walk all the way to the outside toilet, though with Hatchet sitting on it in his bright red robes, it looked like a throne.

“And now whilst in our company, you must leave your old family name behind, neophyte, and we must choose another.”

Hatchet turned to the others. “What say you, Daz?”

The lad thought for a moment. “Well, just look at the lad's old-fashioned quiff,” he decided. “Poncy quiffs went out of style years ago. What about 'Haircut'?”

“Blagger?”

“What about Ponce?” he tentatively suggested.

Several other nicknames were suggested, none of them very complimentary, but Hatchet dismissed them all with a firm shake of his head. Finally, he came up with a name of his own.

“From now on, our new-found brother here is to be known as 'Mouse',” the youth decided unilaterally. “Which brings us to the first order of the day, friends.”

“Neophytes must successfully complete a dare,” he explained to George, adding; “and this trial goes on each time we meet, until such time as the neophyte succeeds in the allotted dare. Daz there went a whole week before graduating, Mouse, which of course was thoroughly entertaining for those observing the trials, but I'm sure you can do better than that.”

“And at the outset of each meeting, we also choose a gang dare and draw lots to see who's chosen to perform that dare. Failure is not an option, by the way.”

“So, Mouse, tell me: do you smoke?”

George screwed his face up. “Not likely,” he replied. “It's a filthy habit.”

Hatchet laughed out loud. He clicked his fingers in Daz's direction and Daz rummaged in his pockets to produce a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a box of matches.

“That's not the right answer, Mouse,” the lad leered, thrusting a cigarette between George's lips and striking a match to light it. “The correct answer is 'I do now.'”

“How much,” Fred enquired, looking a little concerned. “A couple of puffs?”

Hatchet shook his head firmly. “No, it has to be the whole cigarette,” he decided. “And if you fail today, then you start all over again with a whole cigarette tomorrow; and the day after; and the day after that, and this goes on until you've smoked the whole thing. The first law of the Hockney Dare Devils is 'failure is not an option.'”

After two puffs, which hit George like a steamroller, he began to feel quite sick and Daz stood there with a bucket under his chin, ready for anything. And on the third puff, George let rip, bringing up the whole of his breakfast and splattering the bucket with evil-smelling and evil-tasting, fiery vomit.

Daz thrust the bucket into Mouse's hands and turned to walk away.

“Go and wash the bucket out, Daz,” Hatchet requested.

“Hey, it's Mouse's puke, let him wash it out.”

“The second rule is that we don't take 'no' for an answer, Mouse, and the third is that what I say, goes. Now Daz, I'll ask you kindly, go and wash the bucket out. Or you might tempt me to dare you to lick it clean, or find yourself wearing it ….”

Daz didn't need telling a second time.

Hatchet sighed. “Take Mouse home, Todger. We'll meet you at the café in half an hour to discuss the gang dare. And Mouse, no excuses: be back here at eleven tomorrow morning.”

Still feeling wretched, George staggered out of the room, with Fred hanging onto him so that he didn't keel over.

The next fateful day came and Fred had to drag George back to the gang's hideout. There was another there with them that day, a girl not much older than himself, by the name of Jelly. She was quite pretty, really, looking like an angel with her long flowing blond hair and big blue eyes, and the last thing that George wanted was to make a fool of himself in front of her.

“You'll be pleased to know that I've had a change of heart, Mouse,” Hatchet told him as he stood there in the room trembling. “We'll dispense with the cigarettes if you'll perform a dare. Fail at that dare and it's back to the cigarettes, so don't let us down.”

“I won't, I promise,” George nodded vigorously, thoroughly relived that he wouldn't have to draw in another mouthful of that noxious tobacco smoke.

“Todger tells me you know about the residents' allotments on Hadley Manor.”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Well, Mouse, today's dare is – or rather tonight's dare – is that you sneak into the allotments and return here tomorrow morning sharp on eleven with an apple for each of us.” Hatchet scanned the room and counted those present. “That's seven apples, Mouse. And I don't mean crab apples. These have to be big shiny green Granny Smiths.”

“I've only heard of the allotments, I haven't actually seen them,” George pointed out.

“Oh don't worry about that, Jelly here knows the area. She'll go along with you, and all you have to do is pick them and bring them back here.”

Again George was about to breathe a sigh of relief at finding that the dare wouldn't be that tasking, and then he remembered what Fred had once told him about the vigilantes of the residents' association.

“Any questions?” Hatchet wanted to know.

George shook his head.

“Right then, brothers and sisters. Today's dare will take us into the town centre. This place could do with a few posters on the walls to brighten it up a bit, so that's what one of you lucky people is going to beg, borrow or steal today. Daz, fetch the straws and we'll each draw lots.”

Hatchet turned first to George and then to Jelly, momentarily unsure about whether to include them or not. “And since they already have a dare, I think it is only fair that Mouse and Jelly should be excused, which will also spice up the odds for us, with only five remaining. Daz, you draw the first straw ….

“Oh dear, that doesn't look too promising, old chap.”

The more George saw and heard, the more he rued the day he'd let Fred talk him into joining the gang. He'd thought that it would be innocent fun; the odd spot of harmless mischief, or a simple dare; he hadn't been expecting such criminality.

There was nothing that George could do but go along with the others into town. Daz had indeed drawn the short straw and while Hatchet pointed out the shop he'd earmarked and sent Daz inside to do the dreaded deed, he and the others watched at a safe distance. Shortly afterwards, Daz rushed out of the shop, looking furtively this way and that, with two of the shop's staff on his heels.

As soon as he saw this, and without a second thought, Hatchet abruptly turned away. “Right everyone, stay calm. Just walk away.”

“But what about Daz?” George wanted to know.

“Just keep walking and don't look back, there's a good chap,” Hatchet repeated.

Fred tugged at his coat and dragged him away, just as one of the shopkeepers dived at Daz and brought him to the ground.

“Daz knew the odds,” Hatchet replied at length, when they were far enough distant. “You all know the odds. If there were no chance of being caught, then there'd be no dare, would there?”

“So what will happen to Daz?” Jelly asked.

Hatchet shrugged. “He's been up before the beaks[7] before. The first time they fined him. The second time he only just got off a time in a youth detention centre ….”

“So he'll be sent down?” Jelly queried. Other than himself, she was the only one of them who seemed particularly concerned.

Hatchet made no reply, then he looked at his watch. “Tell you what, let's go to the café for a cuppa, I'm gasping. And don't worry, I'm quite flush today – had a stroke of luck on the horses – so I'll pay.”

“And what if Daz dobs us in?” one of the others, Rusty, asked, a worried look etched across his features.

Hatchet patted him on the back. “You worry too much, Rusty,” Hatchet smiled. “Daz is used to the game and he knows the score. He won't let us down.”

“So, tonight's dare will be called off, then?” George asked hopefully. “As a sign of respect, perhaps?”

“Not on your nelly,” Hatchet retorted. “The show must go on, as they say in theatre. Daz would want us to carry on, and that's what we will do. It's unfortunate, of course, but these things happen to the best of us.”

To the worst of us more like, George mused, already racking his brains to find a way out of involvement with this callous youth and his sick gang. Now he knew what the devil in Dare Devils really meant.

“Daz's departure will leave a vacant space, of course, so if any of you have a friend or relative who might be up to the challenge, feel free to propose them.”

“I want out of this group,” George confided in Jelly as they wandered home, making plans for the night's escapade as they went.

Jelly cast her eyes down and flicked her long hair out of the way. “I know,” she admitted. “I'm beginning to feel the same way myself.”

“Then you'd also do well to leave.”

The girl shook her head from side to side. “You've got to be very careful when dealing with Hatchet,” she warned him. “And we can't just leave. The last person who did that ended up in hospital.”

“Hatchet did that?”

Jelly nodded. “Not that the police could prove it. They don't call him Hatchet without good reason, you know.”

“So what are we to do?”

“Well, we could always wait until Hatchet gets sent down. He's already been inside, you know. Or you can invoke rule 47.”

“I'm not sure I want to wait that long, Jelly,” he sighed. “And what's rule forty seven when it's at home.”

“You get three other people to join and then you can leave. That's what Fred's planning on, you know. I was the first person he invited and you were the second. He only needs one more and he's a free man. Or rule 48, after fifty successful dares you can retire.”

George was stunned to hear this. “You mean my own brother did that? My own flesh and blood? I wouldn't have the heart to do such a thing, Jelly, knowing what I know now. I tell you, I'm absolutely gobsmacked.”

Jelly flicked the hair out of her eyes and gently patted his arm. “You're a good lad, I can see that Mouse, and I'm sorry that you got mixed up in all this. Don't worry, I'll figure something out.”

“My name's George,” he offered.

Jelly took his hand and gently shook it. “Hi George, I'm Ruth.”

George beamed back at her. “Pleased to meet you, Ruth.”

Ruth looked at her watch. It seemed quite an expensive watch and George knew that meant one of two things: that she'd either stolen it, or she came from a well-to-do family. And judging by her accent, which was quite posh yet not affected, and her well groomed appearance and clear complexion, it could well be the latter.

“What time is it?” he enquired, not having a watch of his own.

“It's getting on for four thirty. When do you eat?”

“Five on the dot,” he replied. “If dinner isn't on the table sharp on five, or if we're late, my dad does his nut.”

“Well, we eat at around six,” Ruth replied. “It starts coming in dark around seven thirty this time of year and it will take us a good half hour to walk to the Manor, so let's say we meet up by the town clock tower at seven.”

“Right oh,” he smiled, and he gave Ruth a friendly pat on the arm. Ruth leant forward, gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek – which thrilled him no end – and then she was off, fair skipping along the street.

George couldn't bring himself to say a word to Fred when he arrived home; he sat at the table in silence, and had to force himself not to glower.

George swam amidst a mixture of emotions that day. There was, of course, that simmering anger toward Fred, and he couldn't wait to get out of that wretched apartment; there was trepidation at the so-called dare that lay before them; and there was also excitement at meeting up with Ruth. Almost as soon as he'd clapped eyes on that bubbly, kind and curvaceous girl, he'd been smitten, and all the more so in the short time they'd spent alone after leaving the gang's hideaway. Given a free choice, he'd have settled on the latter any day, but of course he didn't have a free choice and nor did Ruth, thanks to that conniving brother of his, who'd sold their souls to the Hockney Dare Devils in the vain hope of saving his own. How did the saying go? Two wrong deeds don't make one right.

By the time George got to the clock tower in town to meet Ruth, the sun was already going down, though there was still plenty of reflected light in the reddening sky. They still had a long walk ahead of them, so they'd best not dawdle, though George wished that that evening might last forever.

Of course, Ruth wanted George to tell her the story of his life, eager to find out more, and he had to keep punctuating his story with apologies that it was, at times, so downbeat and, basically, so run of the mill. Everyone in Mother's stories seemed to have such swashbuckling adventures, but not him.

Ruth took his arm as they walked and she gently squeezed it. “You don't need to keep apologizing, you know, George. I'm genuinely interested to find out more about you, and I'm not in the least bit discouraged by what I've heard, though ….”

A lump welled up in George's throat. “Though?”

“Though of course I'm concerned that you and your family have had to live through such hard times. You know, if there's any time you need to get away from there, or even simply feel the urge, you can always call on me.”

“Thank you,” he smiled. That was touching. “Thank you so much, Ruth. That means a lot.”

“George, I know you come from a poor family … Sorry, I'll rephrase that, I know you come from a family who have fallen on hard times, but I've found that money doesn't bring you happiness. You may be gobsmacked when you see the size of my parents' house, but it takes more than bricks and mortar – any amount of bricks and mortar – to make a house a home.”

“And as for my parents. Well, sure, they have every modern labour saving device on the market and a housekeeper to cook and clean up after them. But if you spend any time with them, if you can bear that, you'll find that there is no love between them and that their lives are quite vacuous and superficial. There's no depth of character, the sort of character that is actually brought out through living through hard and changing times. Sure, they have many influential acquaintances, but no real friends. And they don't know the first thing about the expression or value of genuine human emotion. Everything seems to boil down in their mind to the level of a business transaction, rather than, for example, a loving response to real need.”

“So, I guess what I'm saying, George, is not to sell yourself short or to feel underprivileged and awkward. Firstly, there's an awful lot of cheap tat on the market, with expensive sounding names, and secondly real treasures are seldom found in the places where the untutored mind might expect to find them.”

As Ruth spoke these concluding words, she let go of George's arm and clasped his hand. “Now, deep breaths, George. We're getting close, so we'd best go quietly. Come with me through the trees. We can't just walk in through the front gates to the allotments, so we'll have to sneak in around the rear.”

Threading their way through the tightly planted trees, they eventually came to a small clearing and beyond that to a high wire fence which surrounded the allotments. There was clearly no way over the top of the fence, which was tipped with cruel barbed wire, but Ruth showed him a gap in the fence that had not been properly mended, perhaps after a previous intrusion and, if she held the wire open, there was just enough room for George to worm his way through and then he could hold the wire to let her through.

They made their way down a rutted track on the inside of the wire, then turned off down another which ran between two neat rows of allotments, until they came to the plot that Ruth had in mind. There was a rickety old gate there, which was padlocked, but there was little point to that since the gate was low enough for them to simply vault over.

“Right, George. Here we are. Come over to this tree. Now, the ladder's no doubt locked away in the tool shed, so you bend down and let me climb on your shoulders and then I should be high enough to pick half a dozen apples. Daz won't be wanting one now, where he's going, which is Hades[8], I hope.”

“That's it. Now move a couple of paces to the left, but stay close to the trunk. No, to the left. That's it.” As she spoke, Ruth pulled at the branches and popped the apples in her shoulder bag.

“Okay, you can let me down now, I'm done, and then we can get the hell out of here. It's still early, so I thought perhaps we might spend some time in town together. If you want, that is ….”

“I can think of nothing better,” George smiled, gently letting Ruth down to the ground.

At that moment, they heard the sound of feet scrunching on gravel to their left. “Who goes there?” a menacing voice called through the gloom. “Come on out and show yourselves.”

George grabbed Ruth's hand, ready to make a run for it, but Ruth stood her ground, and instead she clasped George around the neck and began to kiss him. It was a long, lingering and passionate kiss and its suddenness quite bowled him over.

“Who's that?” the voice called again. “I've seen you now, so you can either come quietly or I'll fetch the police.”

Finally Ruth let George go and turned to face the man. “Oh, it's you, Mister Mason. You gave me such a fright.”

“Who's that? Is that you, Ruth Brierdene? Why so it is. And what are you doing out at this time?”

“This is George,” Ruth smiled, leading George toward the man. “He's my boyfriend. We were out for a walk and I thought I'd show George my Aunt Aggie's allotment before it got dark.”

“Oh, I see. Well, it's good to see you and nice to meet you, George, but you know it gave me such a fright when I heard you. Anyway, I'd best be off. It's nearly my bedtime and the missus will be narked if I'm late. So I'll leave you two lovebirds to find your own way out.”

“Thank you, Mister Mason. And be sure to give my regards to Missus Mason.”

When the man had gone, George turned to Ruth, his hands on his hips. “Why you crafty old fox, you knew all along that there was no danger in coming here. And there I was near shitting myself. You know my brother Fred has always been one for telling stories. He brought me to the manor once when I was knee high to a grasshopper and he told me that if the residents' association vigilantes ever caught anyone stealing around in the allotments, they'd cut their willy off. And at the time he had me quite convinced. It was years before I dare venture back here.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows and replied seriously. “George, believe me, you would not want to be found here on your own. If I hadn't been here, they'd have had your guts for garters.”

“Really?” he queried. “Shit.”

At this point, Ruth burst out laughing and playfully tickled his ribs. “No, silly, I'm just winding you up. And don't worry about thieving the apples. My aunt said that I could come along any time and pick a few. So you can rest easy in your bed tonight, George Mackfee, knowing that you have committed no crime.”

Then she had a thought and laughed out loud. “Two lovebirds, indeed.”

“Anyhow, there's still some light left in the sky. The old manor house you told me about – your ancestral home – let's have a quick look at that on the way back. And then you can take me through town and treat us to some fish and chips.”

George cast his eyes down and sighed. “I'm sorry, I'd love to, but I haven't got a single copper on me. You must think me awful, coming out with you and not having any money.”

Ruth merely smiled, pulled a purse out of her shoulder bag and shook it up and down so that he could hear the jingle of change. It had the ring of real silver, too, not the clatter of iron shekels he had to make do with.

“You worry too much, George. Tonight the fish and chips are on me.”

On the way back, an awful thought occurred to George. “Of course you do realize, Ruth, that come the next dare, we might not be able to pull the wool over Hatchet's eyes the way we have tonight.”

Ruth nodded and nestled her head against his arm. “I know, sweetie. And I promise, the cogs are whirring in my head and I'm still working on that. I'm not just a pretty face, you know; you'll find me quite a resourceful woman when you get to know me better.”

“When I get to know you better? Dare I ask ….”

“Dare I ask?” Ruth replied, looking askance. “Are you a man or a mouse, George? Of course you dare ask.”

George blushed, though fortunately it was dark enough now for Ruth not to notice. He cleared his throat. “Ruth Brierdene, will you go out with me?”

“Please?”

“Please.”

“Pretty please?”

“Ruth, will you go out with me. Pretty please?”

A broad smile crossed Ruth's face and she stopped walking for a few moments and gave him a big hug. “Of course I will, silly.” Then: “Yes, thank you for asking, George Mackfee, I would love to go out with you.”

“There's one thing that we must do before we go any further, however,” Ruth told him, searching inside her canvas shoulder bag.

“What's that?” he queried.

“We must sort out that awful quiff of yours. It's not 'so last year', but more 'so granddad's generation'. Now bend your head down a little, I'm not as tall as you, George,” she requested and, producing a small red comb from her bag she proceeded to re-part his hair in the middle and to flatten it down.

“There,” Ruth smiled at length. “Now you look a whole lot better.”

She popped the comb in his top pocket.

“Won't you be needing this, Ruth?”

“No, you keep it. I have another. Now, let's get going again.”

5. Tragedies strike

One morning, George woke to find the sun streaming in through the gap in the bedroom curtains. This was unusual, because Mother was always up at the crack of dawn and invariably came to wake him and Fred when she got Michael up. She didn't have to, of course, because neither of them had school to go to and thankfully they were still too young to send out to work, but that is the way Father wanted it and so that's the way things had always been done. His reasoning was that by the time they were older, getting up early for work would be thoroughly engrained in them.

Fred must have got up already, for the bedclothes were thrown back for Mother to tidy later, and there was no sign of him. He checked Michael's bedroom, too, to find him gone. As for Father, he was never up before nine and would still be fast asleep in bed and was not to disturbed on any account. So, a fine lot of good the training had done him.

George dressed quickly and headed for the cold scullery to get washed in the cracked stone sink. And now he was doubly confused. Michael was still there and he was sitting on the settee, whilst Father sat in his armchair by the fire. It was quite cold that day, but there was no fire burning in the hearth and the two of them were just sitting there, saying nothing and staring vacantly into space. George stood in the doorway watching them and wondering what on earth could be going on.

He'd just noticed that there was no sign of Fred when the lad burst in through the front door. He was puffed out and glistening with sweat.

Father was up on his feet in an instant, His toupee flapped about with the sudden movement and he nervously readjusted it. “Did you find them?” he snapped, though not in an unkind way, rather Father appeared agitated and there was an emotional quiver in his voice as he spoke.

“Yes.” Fred put his hand up to tell Father to hang on a minute while he caught his breath. “Amy's already on her way and Joan will be along in about half an hour.”

Father sank back down in his armchair and again there was silence. If he'd seen George hovering in the doorway, he showed no sign, and George would have expected him to come out with something like “Well, are you coming or going, lad? Don't just stand there dithering.”

Finally Fred saw him there and he came forward with a worried look etched across his face. “I have some bad news for you, George,” he began, pausing for several seconds, as if to let his words sink in.

“Yes, what is it?” George wanted to know, growing anxious.

“It's Mother ….”

George's heart leapt. “Is she ill?”

“Worse than that.”

“Very ill?”

Fred cast his eyes down. “Worse still.”

On hearing this, George could feel the colour draining from his face. He spun round on his heel and dashed back through to his parents' bedroom. Just for a moment as he held the wooden handle, he found himself unable to turn it, through fear of what he might find beyond, and then he broke free and burst in. The blankets had been turned down, but there was someone still in the bed, under a thin white sheet brought right up to the pillow, so that you couldn't see that person's face.

He just stood there, rooted to the spot, not knowing quite what to do. Fred was behind him now and attempted to pull George away, but George resisted and edged his way toward the bed. He gingerly pulled back the linen sheet and now he could see that it was his mother laying there. Her eyes were closed and he could see by the stillness beneath the thin sheet that she was not breathing.

George sank to his knees beside the bed and reached under the covers to hold his mother's hand. It felt slightly cold and it was limp to the touch. Tears welled up in George's eyes at this point, when the reality of the situation suddenly hit him, and then the tears began to stream down his face. How could they have taken his mother from him and taken her so suddenly? If she'd been ill in bed for some time, then death would always have been a possibility, and they could have coped with that. But for her to go like this, when she seemed so fit and healthy. That came as such a shock; more than he could handle at that moment.

Michael had come into the room now and he took George by the arm and guided him back to the living room, leaving Fred to sort out the bed covers.

He sat George down on the settee and then waved his arms in the air to signal that he, too, was at a loss. “I'll put the kettle on,” he said feebly at length, going through to the scullery, re-emerging shortly after, having realized that since Mother had not been up earlier that morning, the fire had not been lit to boil any water. Michael looked deeply troubled and didn't appear capable of carrying out this simple task. As for Father, he just sat there with a vacant expression on his face, “neither use nor ornament”, as Mother was always saying ….

As Mother would have said.

George wiped the tears from his eyes and blew his nose on a handkerchief. Then, drawing in a deep breath, he sprang to his feet. He had to pull himself together. “Don't worry, Michael. You sit down for a minute and I'll get the fire going. Then you can make a cup of tea, if you feel up to it.”

He looked toward Fred, who seemed to be holding up under the strain. “If not, Fred or I can do that.”

By the time George got the fire going, Amy had arrived, and she took over making the tea. Fortunately Mother had banked the fire up with vegetable refuse overnight, so the tank was already warm, but she'd need hot water to see to Mother, and for that they'd simply have to wait. And by the time the kettle was boiling, Joan came in. Amy would see to the body and Joan was there to minister to the spirit – and the bereaved – as they had done for others, with Mother, on so many occasions. George could hear their consoling voices, but he was too dazed to take in quite what these ladies were saying. Nevertheless, they had a good and soothing effect on him that day.

Come late afternoon that day, Father had emerged from his trance. George and his brothers had eaten a late breakfast and had some bread and butter for lunch, but he hadn't eaten all day, he was hungry and of course there would be no dinner on the table for him come five o'clock.

Michael was at the receiving end of Father's wrath for that and he did scoot into the scullery to see what food he could find in the larder, to find that though they had plenty of potatoes and veg, there was no meat. Mother had intended visiting the butcher for some ham, but of course fate had intervened and being half day closing, by now it was too late to go to the shops.

For his part, George was more than happy to make do with whatever they could find in the larder, or even to go without, but Father was beside himself and he started shouting at Michael for his incompetence.

“Let me tell you now, Michael James – and this goes for the rest of you, too. With your mother gone, there are going to be changes in this house. Sweeping changes. First thing Monday morning, I'll be seeing about getting you fixed up with some work, you two. And I don't care what they say about you being too young: I know two or three people who'll take you on, no questions asked. Let me tell you now, the days of loafing around this house are over.”

Michael said nothing. He went across to Father and thrust the potato peeler in the man's hand before stalking through the apartment to his room. He emerged a few minutes later with his old army backpack stuffed full of clothes; stopped for a moment to give George and Fred a hug, and walked straight out through the front door without saying another word.

That was the second tragedy of the day and the last time George was to see his eldest brother.

Straight after dinner, such as it was, unable to stand his father's moaning and groaning a moment longer, George, too, slipped out of the door. He headed for Ruth's house, to see her for an hour or two and to try to take his mind off the tragedy that had struck that day.

6. Drawing the short straw

Ruth Brierdene sat in the meeting room at the gang's hideaway idly twiddling her thumbs. Hatchet was late that day and with Daz, his number two absent, all they could do was wait. Finally the youth arrived. They jumped up as he climbed the stairs and stood to attention until he had taken his seat and told them to rest easy.

Had any of them been late, they would have been for the high jump, but Hatchet offered no word of apology. He scanned the room and raised his eyebrows.

“Where are Todger and Mouse?” he wanted to know.

“Their mother died just yesterday,” Ruth offered.

“Sad as that may be, it's no excuse, Jelly.”

“And Mouse wanted you to know that they won't be able to come along until after the funeral.”

“Oh won't they?” Hatchet spluttered. “Well we'll see about that. Rule 7, Jelly?”

“Gang members must attend all meetings unless unable to attend due to illness, contagious disease, parasitic infestation ….”

“Exactly. 'Blah, blah, blah … Unless so authorized by the leader or, if the leader is unavailable, his deputy.' With Daz absent and no deputy as yet appointed, I should have been consulted.”

“Well, you can tell Todger and Mouse from me that if they are not present and ready for inspection sharp on eleven tomorrow, that I will convene a disciplinary hearing and that they will pay a heavy price for this unauthorized absence.”

Ruth cast her eyes down. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes Hatchet, sir.”

“That's better. Now, down to business. The first order of the day will be to elect a new deputy and then to arrange the next gang dare.”

Hatchet again scanned the room. “I nominate Flash. All those in favour raise your hands. Carried unanimously. Flash is duly elected to serve as my deputy with immediate effect.”

“Now, item two on our agenda. I notice that the gang's coffers are nearly empty.”

Ruth raised her eyebrows. Well, there was no great mystery about that. Hatchet was rather fond of his grog and a percentage of their takings always went to pay for that and to feed his deputy's smoking habit.

“My sources tell me that the school rooms adjacent to the chapel on Mill Lane are being renovated. Copious sheets of new lead are there for the taking and I know a scrap merchant who will take the lead off my hands with no questions asked. So today, were looking for two of our number. One to climb up and throw the lead down to the ground and another to roll it up and bag it. They're still some way off finishing the work, so we pull the job tomorrow night.”

Ruth closed her eyes and sighed deeply, cursing the day she'd joined this wretched gang. You couldn't stoop much lower than stealing from chapel or from a charity collecting box. And if the culprits were caught, it was almost guaranteed that they would be sent down as a deterrent to others.

“Is it a high roof?” Flash wanted to know. He had a fear of heights.

“No, it's a single storey with a sloping roof, and you'll be pleased to note that the builders are using scaffolding and have thoughtfully left a ladder in place. Well, more fool them, that's what I say.”

“So that's the special fund raising dare for tonight, brothers and sisters, and we'll draw straws for that in a minute. However, the usual gang dare will still go ahead, and we'll draw lots for that later.”

“Excuse me a moment, Hatchet, sir.” Flash stepped to one side and reached for a book bound in red leather that always sat by Hatchet's right hand. He flicked through the hand written pages. “Ah yes, there it is. Excuse me, sir. Rule 38 states that the leader or his deputy may directly nominate other members to carry out special, fund raising dares.”

Hatchet scratched his stubbly chin. “And? Do go on.”

“Well, sir, I was thinking that we might – I mean that you might – nominate Todger and Mouse in their absence, sir.”

Hatchet sat there and thought about this for a moment, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “What a wizard idea, Flash. I knew that you would not let me down. So be it.”

He turned to Ruth. “You seem closest to those two ne'er-do-wells, so after this meeting is closed, kindly inform them of their allotted dare and that I wish to see them and the lead back here at nine o'clock on Thursday morning. That will give me time to see my scrap dealer friend before the meeting at eleven.”

That day, much to her dismay, it was Ruth who drew the short straw. She was about to get her coat and head to town when Flash drew Hatchet to one side and whispered something in his ear. Hatchet nodded and again turned to Ruth.

“There's a danger you may be caught, Jelly,” Hatchet informed her, idly picking his nose.

“So tell me something I don't know,” she hissed back, seething with fear and anger.

“And my Deputy Grand Wazoo, Flash, here suggests that we adjourn until one o'clock this afternoon. In the meantime, you are to carry out the more important of the two tasks assigned to you. You are to find Todger and Mouse and inform them of the job they are to carry out, and then you are to return here.”

“I see.” Ruth pulled on her coat and gave Hatchet the obligatory two fingered salute. “Fuck them all”, those were the words they used whenever they saluted the leader, but inside she would always be thinking “Fuck you.” Turning on her heel, Ruth hurriedly left the hideaway and headed across town to the old mill where George and Fred had been billeted[9].

What none of them knew was that even as they prepared for their so-called “dares”, the police having gone to great lengths in interrogating Daz, and he proving to be more cooperative than they'd hoped when threatened with imprisonment, the gang's every move was being watched.

It was with a heavy heart that Ruth went to speak with George that day, leaving him to relay Hatchet's message to his brother. She couldn't bring herself to speak to Fred, still seething inside at the way he had betrayed her and George. If she lived to be a hundred and died a sad and lonely old woman, she would never, ever attempt to trick anyone into that sick and twisted gang to gain her own reprieve.

As she left George, Ruth knew that drastic action was called for. She had a plan in mind, though as yet she had done little but sketch it out, and much of the detail still remained unresolved. But by hook or by crook, she would pull herself and George out of the gang's clutches.

On her way back to the hideaway, she went past the local post office and bought a large padded envelope and she sat on a bench nearby for a moment while she wrote a name and address on the envelope and waited for the ink to dry, before popping the envelope in her shoulder bag and again going on her way.

“Well done, Jelly,” Hatchet commended her as she reported back. “Now off you go and do your dare. We'll be here, awaiting your return.”

That was unusual. She crossed the room to stand close to Hatchet. “You mean you're not coming with me, to watch?”

“We have other things to discuss, and this place could do with a bit of a spring clean,” he replied.

“Very well.” As she turned away, she scooped something from the low table that stood beside Hatchet's “throne”, slipped it into her bag and hastened from the room.

As soon as Ruth was out of sight, she found a quiet place where she could sit for a moment and rummaged in her bag, pulling out the things she'd stolen from under Hatchet's nose. One was a slim volume, the gang's little red rule book, and the other, bound in black, was the diary. She slipped the first into the padded envelope, then flicked through the pages of the diary, hunting for any mention of her own name or that of George. Ruth tore out a couple of pages and strips from several more and, tearing these semi-literate entries into tiny shreds, she threw them away in a nearby rubbish bin. Then she slipped the diary into the envelope, licked the seal and casually walked into the local post office to have the package weighed, stamped and dropped into the sack with the rest of the day's mail. Now, to go back to the house to grab her bag, which she'd already packed, and leave.

Suddenly everything started to go terribly wrong. She was just crossing town when someone came running up behind her. It was Flash. Hatchet must already have discovered that the precious books had gone missing, and only then did Ruth realize how foolish she had been and that there would be no prizes for guessing who'd taken them.

“Flash, what are you doing here?” she said, forcing a smile and feigning innocence.

“Hatchet had second thoughts. He thought I should go along with you to make sure you didn't chicken out.”

Ruth breathed a sigh of relief that her deed had not yet been discovered, but now she was filled with trepidation at the thought of having to go through with the dare. “I see.”

As she entered the clothes shop, Ruth thought fast. Of course, she had quite a bit of money with her, so she'd simply buy something and then when she got back outside, she'd make out that it was stolen. And instead of going back to the hideaway, she'd simply hand the clothes over to Flash and get him to take them back to the hideout whilst she made her getaway. There was still plenty of time before the coach left in the late afternoon.

That was her plan, of course, but being quite a bright spark really, Flash had other ideas. Pretending that he was not with her, he followed Ruth into the shop and made out that he was looking through the menswear, using this as a pretext to watch over her.

Well, there was only one thing for it, then, Ruth thought. She spent some time going through the racks of ladies trousers, roughly measuring them against her leg then, picking up two garments, she headed for the fitting room to try them on.

“Can I help you, madam?” enquired the sales lady as she emerged.

Ruth smiled and shook her head. “Not today thank you, these trousers are about my size, but they're not a good fit. Thank you anyway.”

“Very well. Perhaps I might assist you?”

“No, thank you. Really. There's nothing here that I particularly fancy being today. Thanks all the same.”

She turned to return the one pair of trousers to the rail and was just walking out of the store, still wearing the other pair of trousers beneath her jeans when a man in a long coat and a trilby hat crossed her path and stood in front of her, blocking her exit. “If you'd just come with me, miss,” the man requested, grasping her firmly by the arm and guiding her back inside the shop. In that heart lurching moment, Ruth realized that she'd been rumbled. And out of the corner of her eye she saw Flash turn and walk nonchalantly out of the shop and away from the scene.

7. Stood up

George sneaked out of the apartment at around three o'clock that afternoon. Ruth had been by earlier in the day and told him about the special job that he and Fred had been allotted and he'd been in full agreement with her that this wasn't going one step too far, it was half a dozen.

There had seemed no way out, until Ruth had revealed her plan. They would pack their bags and run away together. That was the only option they had. Of course, George had realized immediately that there would be practical things to consider, like money for starters, but Ruth had told him that he was worrying unnecessarily and to leave that for her to sort out. There was a stage coach leaving the station at ten past four that afternoon and if they missed that, there was the sleeper which left at six and travelled on through much of the night. George was to meet her near the café opposite the coach station at no later than four that afternoon. If he was coming with her, then they'd board the coach; and if he'd changed his mind, then he should be there to at least let her know, and they could say their fond goodbyes.

Four o'clock came and went and by now George was getting worried and also bored sick of sitting there on that cold, hard wooden bench waiting and waiting and waiting, to no avail. Ruth had not told him what to do if she should be late or fail to turn up. He did wonder if perhaps he ought to pass by Ruth's house and see if she was still there, but then he could hardly go up to the door and enquire of her parents if she was ready to run away from home yet. And the chances were that if he headed off to the house, she might be heading in the opposite direction, and then they'd miss each other and Ruth would be left waiting at the coach station thinking that he had stood her up. No, the only safe and sensible thing to do, as cold, uncomfortable and fretful as it might be, was to simply sit and wait and hope for the best.

By the time five thirty came, George was almost beside himself. He'd already spent his last copper on a cup of tea at the nearby café and, with sad resignation, he got up from the hard bench and, his legs feeling stiff from the cold and from the inactivity, he slowly headed off across the station in the direction of home.

George could only imagine that something had gone wrong, perhaps some last minute hitch. A thousand and one possibilities crossed his mind that afternoon. And then he remembered that Ruth had drawn the short straw that day, and been sent on a dare. Perhaps sent out on one dare too many ….

8. Out of the frying pan ...

The plain clothed police officer led Ruth back into the store and explained to the anxious lady shop assistant that he believed Ruth might have left the shop without paying for goods. In the lady's presence the man emptied out her shoulder bag, which fortunately contained no incriminating evidence, and then he had the lady take Ruth to the changing room to strip. Of course, straight away the woman found the extra pair of trousers that Ruth was wearing. So the policeman took the garment for evidence, promising to bring it back later and writing out a receipt for the woman, and he escorted Ruth to his car and took her off to the local police station.

So that was that. There Ruth was, sitting on a thin rubber mattress in a cold, stone police cell. She'd spend a long, lonely night in the cells and then tomorrow morning she'd be up before the magistrate, one of the “beaks” as the gang called them. She was worried by that, of course, but she was also worried that poor old George would be left waiting all alone at the coach station, wondering and worrying. Ruth was also fearful of what might happen when Hatchet realized that he'd been robbed and – later – when the police found the package she'd sent them, that he'd been well and truly “rodgered” – screwed that is.

At that moment, there was a jangling of keys, a bolt was drawn back and the door opened to clatter against the wall. The police custody sergeant stood framed in the doorway.

“Right Brierdene, on your feet and let's be having you. Look lively now.”

Ruth struggled to her feet, her legs quite numb from sitting there on the floor in one position for so long.

“Where am I going?” she wanted to know.

“You'll find out soon enough,” was all the man had to offer. “That's it, straight ahead and round to the right at the end.”

Ruth found herself back in the foyer leading to the cells and she came face to face with another stern looking man: her father.

“Right then, Mister Brierdene, I release your daughter into your custody,” the sergeant announced, adding gruffly. “And you can thank your lucky stars that you come from a well-to-do family, young miss. If it were up to me, you'd have been up before the magistrates.”

“I don't understand,” Ruth queried, looking from one to the other.

“Your father has come to an arrangement with the Superintendent. He has paid your fine and made a rather generous donation to the benevolent fund.”

“Thank you,” she replied, casting her eyes down.

“And mind you stay out of trouble, young miss. If you're brought here a second time, mark my words, you won't get off so lightly.”

“Thank you. And I won't. I mean, I will stay out of trouble. I promise you that.”

Father didn't speak a word until they were at the car. She expected that he'd let her in the passenger side, but instead he went round to the boot, reached inside and tossed a bulky object at her. It was the bag she'd packed earlier.

Then her father went around to stand in front of her. “Yes,” he spoke at length. “I saw that you'd packed your bag. And, given the circumstances, I think it's for the best. Your mother's in a right state finding that she has a filthy thief for a daughter. So go, and don't bother coming back. And the money you took from my study earlier. I expect you thought I wouldn't notice. Well, you can take that. And you can consider it your inheritance, for you won't get one iron shekel more from me, even on my dying day.

“We gave you everything, Ruth. You couldn't have asked for more, nor for a better start in life. Your mother and I had such high hopes for you. And what have you done to repay us, eh? You've thrown it all back in our faces, that's what.

“Well, you've done what you've done and now you'll have to pay for it. As far as I'm concerned, you're no daughter of mine. Not any more.”

And with that, without even one last hug or word of kindness, let alone a lift to the station, Father went round to the driver's side of the car, got in and drove off in a screech of tyres.

The tears were welling up in her eyes, but Ruth pulled herself together and glanced urgently at her watch. It was already gone quarter past five and she was a good fifteen minutes' walk from the coach station. And there was no telling what would have become of George: whether he'd still be there waiting and freezing his bollocks off or whether he'd have given up on her as well, thinking that she'd stood him up. Well, there was only one thing for it: she'd have to hoof it round to the coach station to find out.

9. A frantic search

Ruth only had to scan the near-deserted coach station to see that George was not there. There was a public toilet at one end and she dashed across to it, opened the exterior door and yelled his name, but there was no reply. And she dashed across the road to the café, peering in through the windows, then going inside just to be sure.

“Have you seen a lad about my age, a few inches taller?” she breathlessly called across to a lady clearing away one of the tables.

“Mousy blond hair? Blue eyes?” the lady enquired.

“That's the one,” Ruth nodded excitedly, flicking her long golden locks behind her ear.

“He was in here just a few minutes ago and I'd seen him hanging around waiting for hours. Then he left. Can only have been four or five minutes ago.”

“Oh, hell.”

The lady's eyes brightened. “Are you Ruth?” she enquired, straightening up and putting down her cloth.

“Yes, yes, that's me.”

“Then the young gentleman left a message to say that he was heading off home by the usual route and that he'd walk slowly just in case. If you were to hurry, I'm sure you could catch him.”

Ruth whooped for joy and headed for the door. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. You don't know how much this means to me.”

“Oh, I can guess,” the lady called after her. “I was young and in love myself once over, you know … before the rot set in.”

~~~O~~~

“Hey! George! Hold up!” a familiar voice called out and George stopped in his tracks and spun round. It was Ruth, across the street and she was frantically waving at him.

George crossed over and trotted up to Ruth and she flung her arms around him.

“I'd given you up for lost,” he whistled.

“You and me both,” Ruth told him.

“So what happened?”

“It's a long story,” Ruth informed him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him along the street. “I'll tell you on the way, but right now we need to get our skates on or we'll miss the six o'clock coach.”

“My, you do smell good,” he noted, sniffing the air.

“Perfume. I borrowed it from Mother. Well, she has packing crates full of the stuff, so she's not going to miss one bottle,” Ruth replied. “Though I can't look good. I haven't had a wash or freshened up my makeup all day.”

“Ruth, you always look good, makeup or not.”

“Anyway, let's not dawdle, George,” Ruth replied insistently, tugging him along in her wake. “We mustn't miss the coach.”

It was gone five past six by the time they made it to the coach station, and their hearts sank. “Well, it looks like we'll be spending a cold night huddled up together,” Ruth sighed. “Not that I don't want to be cuddled up together. If it's any consolation, there's the milk coach in the morning.”

“What's that when it's at home?” the lad enquired.

“My, you have led a sheltered life, George. They call it the milk coach because it sets off at about the time they start delivering milk on a morning. Of course, the upside of that is that there will be plenty of room to stretch your legs, at least until folk start to pile in further south.”

A frail looking lady nearby with short, tightly curled permed grey hair must have overheard them talking and she came over to have a word. Ruth was sure she'd been waiting there when she'd first arrived in search of George. “Are you waiting for the six o'clock coach?”

“Yes, and you?”

The lady nodded. “Fifteen minutes I've been waiting and at my age, the cold does me no good at all, I can tell you.”

The radiant smile returned to Ruth's face. “You mean the coach hasn't gone yet?”

“Not yet. Happens quite often, by all accounts. Sometimes a horse'll throw a shoe and every now and again they'll have to change a wheel if they hit a bad pot hole in the road. I tell you, the roads are a disgrace these days. Time they did something about it, if you ask me.”

Just as the lady finished speaking, they could hear the familiar clomping of horses' hooves and, thank their good fortune, the coach finally pulled into the station.

The driver and his mate got down to stretch their legs and so they were in no rush at all. “Just going to point Percy at porcelain,”[10] the mate called to the driver, who stood by to help them on board. He let the old lady climb in without question, but when he saw George and Ruth, he seemed to be in two minds.

“What's the furthest south you go?” Ruth enquired.

“Upper Wyevale, not far north of the border,” the man replied.

“Then Upper Wyevale it is, sir.”

The driver stood there for a moment, on the point of letting them climb aboard. “No offence, like, but I'd rather see you colour of your money first, miss.”

Ruth sighed and retrieved her purse. “How much will that be?”

The man named a figure, in silver shekels, adding that they'd have to stop overnight on the way and that rooms for the night would be more.

“And you'd like payment now? I believe 'up front' is the term?”

“Aye, best you pays me now than we finds out too late,” the man nodded. “Not that I'm casting aspersions on your good selves, of course, but folk have been known to do a runner at yon end when asked to pay, so it pays to be careful. As I said, nothing personal like, and no offence intended.”

“None taken,” Ruth reassured the man.

George was gobsmacked. The figure the man proposed was eye-watering, but Ruth said nothing, counting the bright silver coins out one by one into the man's eagerly outstretched palm.

“Travelling far?” the man enquired, looking them up and down. “You know you'll need a visa if you intend going across the border.”

“Oh, we're off to see relatives,” Ruth fibbed. “And don't worry, all that's been taken care of.”

“Good, good. Just that I wouldn't want to see you stranded so far from home,” the man said, pocketing the silver, closing the coach door behind them and clambering aboard when his mate arrived back, still buttoning up his flies. “Off we jolly well go, then.”

“Yeh,” he called to the horses, giving them a flick of the reins. “Walk on boys, walk on.”

They travelled on until gone ten that night and though the odd couple would get on or depart, they pretty much had the coach to themselves, in the company of the old lady, who told them she was going all the way to the terminus, too. Well, that would be a treat, George grumbled to himself.

The lady's name was Mildred Drew and sadly she'd recently lost her husband. He'd been a miner and the work had done his lungs no good. And now she was off to the funeral of her youngest sister, Harriet. “It's so sad,” she lamented. “Harriet was a late and unexpected arrival in our lives and she's died so young whilst I'm left still alive and mourning her.”

“It's no fun growing old, all alone, especially in these lean times,” the lady lamented as Ruth sat there brushing her long sleek golden hair and freshening her makeup. “So look after and be there for one-another while you still can. This past year, I've been to three funerals: first two dear old friends and now my sister. It's getting so I daren't pick up the newspaper for fear of seeing yet another familiar name in the obituaries column, or even seeing my own.

“Still, I mustn't grumble. My hubby, Harold and I had a good life together. Celebrated our golden wedding anniversary shortly before he passed away. Imagine that: fifty years. That must seem like an aeon to you youngsters, though time seems to pass more quickly as you get older. It wasn't marital bliss, of course. Life never is. And anyone who says otherwise is living in Cloud Cuckoo Land, if you ask me. But as I say they were good years we spent together, all the same. Wouldn't have changed a thing – except maybe the last war, of course – or swapped our life together for all the tea in Erigwid, and I do love a good cuppa. It was hard during the war and a darn sight harder after, too. Yet it did bring people close to one-another. It fostered a real community spirit and it made real men of wayward youths – and strong women out of giggling girls.”

George wasn't quite as engaged in listening as Ruth and whilst she would nod frequently or shake her head and utter words like “Fascinating”, he'd be looking round and peering out of the window. Sitting there, he felt like he was in some kind of invisible, yet almost tangible, bubble.

“Of course, come the end of the war, some of the men weren't too chuffed with their womenfolk and their new-found independence. Not one bit. There were some adjustments to be made, I can tell you, and there were quite a number who simply couldn't make those adjustments. The war's been over a long time now, but it'll take another generation before the old wounds are finally healed. Just in time for the next war, I expect, if history is anything to go by. And it so often is.

“All in all, however, I suppose we should be thankful, even for those dark times. It's all grist for the mill, as they say. I believe the term the hobnobs use for it these days is a learning experience.”

Ruth was nodding her head, eager to hear more. The woman was quite the chatter box. It was as if someone had wound her up like a clockwork soldier and she was off.

“You know, when I was a young girl, I grew up in Erigwid, far to the south, and something that their traditional society had – its at times stifling conservatism notwithstanding – were the tribal elders. They had enormous experience, oral tribal memories spanning generations, and simple common sense wisdom and maturity. And I think that's something that is lacking in the planning of our western societies, you know, where the old people's views are considered outmoded, irrelevant or even an embarrassment, and such folk are considered unemployable and sidelined by the time they touch forty. Not that all old people are wise, I hasten to add: far from it. There's one thing worse than ignorant youth, which can be remedied, and that is ignorance in old age. And there's much to be learnt from some of the new ways of doing things and relating to one-another. I suppose that in the end what is required is that one should be flexible and keep an open mind.

“But enough about me,” the old lady smiled at length. “I do go on at times, not having anyone else to talk to these days. So, tell me about yourselves and what brings you here.”

And then, quite out of the blue, Mildred added: “And you needn't try to pull the wool over my eyes with talk of being brother and sister and visiting distant relatives, you know. I've lived too long and seen too much not to know when I see two young folk in love.”

Now that did grab George's attention, and how. “There's not much to tell, really,” he replied feebly, when he'd recovered his composure.

Mildred looked at him, but not at all unkindly. “Now don't give me that, young man. I don't buy that for one minute. Those worry lines, for instance, and at such a tender age, and the dirt behind your fingernails: to me they tell a story. A story of hard times.

“And your accent, my dear,” the old lady said, turning to Ruth. “That tells me that you come from a well-to-do family. And yet here you are, on the road together, when you should both be still at school.”

Ruth blushed and cast her eyes down.

“Oh, don't worry, my dear,” Mildred added kindly. “I shan't tell tales on you, as they say. You seem intelligent and sentient young people to me; and if you have left home, then it must surely be with good reason. And if not – and I hasten to add that I doubt this – then let conscience and common sense and love for your families be your guide.”

At that moment, however, the coach pulled into the side of the road and they could see four or five others waiting there to be let aboard.

Mildred tapped her finger to her nose. “We'll talk later, when we're alone once more,” she advised. “If you wish to talk, that is. Don't mind me: if you simply want to cuddle up together and find some peace, then that's fine and dandy by me.”

“Yes, we'll talk later,” Ruth reassured her, nestling her head on George's shoulder and closing her eyes for a time. Mildred she could handle, but not a conversation with a whole carriage full of travellers, who must have been out on the town and were by now slightly inebriated and rather too loud for her liking.

Finally they arrived at their destination for the night. Both George and Ruth must have nodded off and Mildred gently woke them. She informed them that fortunately the revellers had alighted at an earlier stop.

Once the coach had been driven into the enclosed courtyard of the inn where they'd be stopping, the driver's mate got down, opened the door and let them out. Though it was late, the inn was still open. They'd stopped serving hot dinners, however the landlady could still lay on a wholesome supper for them. She had called it soup, though it was more like stew and there was plenty of bread and freshly-churned butter. The soup, the bread, the butter: it was all good local produce, she proudly informed them.

Since Mildred would be with them all the way, Ruth suggested that they all ate together and she found them a comfortable table not far from the warmth of a log fire. George had been a little worried, given that Mildred had seen through their little ploy, but Ruth didn't seem in the least adversely concerned by this, and it was she who broached the subject again.

Though below the legal age to drink at that time, they were allowed a small port or sherry with a meal, when accompanied by an adult, and whilst Ruth insisted that they pay for their own meals when gently pressured to accept the lady's charity, Mildred insisted on her part that she buy them all a drink. It also turned out that they were a little more liberal with their measures out here in the country, so though by no means drunk by the end of the meal, they were ever so slightly squiffy, which brightened up the conversation no end and finally broke the ice between him and Mildred.

That night, Mildred and Ruth shared a room, which halved her expenses and reduced theirs, and George had a little attic room all to himself. He slept soundly that night and didn't wake until Ruth came up the stairs to rouse him the next morning. He jumped out of bed when he saw Ruth and hurriedly began to dress, but she reassured him that there was still plenty of time to wash before breakfast. Ruth showed him through to the bathroom, which was actually on her level, one floor down, and he was delighted to find that even out here in the country they actually had hot running water, which was more than he had back home.

“Don't forget to wash behind your ears,” Ruth grinned as she left him to it. “And your feet, under your arms and your you know whats.” She waved her hand in the approximate location.

“We don't know when we'll get another opportunity and we don't want to start smelling all whiffy. There's nothing worse than smelly feet or sweaty armpits, unless of course you want to curdle the milk or gas the other guests.”

George learnt a valuable lesson that day, though it was not delivered unkindly. There was an old phrase, he recalled: that cleanliness is next to godliness, though his father used it as seldom as he used soap. As long as his shirts were whitened, his collars starched and his clothes well ironed that's all that mattered to him. George had once heard father complaining that his collar was still grubby after it had been through the wash; to which Mother, in a moment of deep frustration with this at times insufferable man, had retorted, and quite rightly: “Then wash your bloody neck, husband!” This had not gone down at all well with the old man. His focus was always on the container and not the content, except when it came to food, his grog and other people's business.

Folk were in and out of the carriage like yo-yos that day, so after eating a quiet breakfast with Mildred, which was quite a refined affair to which George was unaccustomed, there was little more time to talk to her. That didn't stop her striking up conversations with others, however, and she, and Ruth for that matter, seemed perfectly at ease in a wide range of company, whilst George would have found himself struggling. It wasn't that his vocabulary was limited, though of course his life experience was quite restricted, so much as factors like his upbringing and a resultant lack of self confidence. One thing George hoped and that was that this gap would not widen and affect his relationship with Ruth, rather that he would grow with her and blossom as she was clearly blossoming. The last thing he wanted to be was her bit of “rough”[11] on the side.

Another thing he noticed, now that they were out of their customary haunting grounds, was that though he marvelled at these new, green and pleasant surroundings, he still felt as if he was somehow locked inside his own head looking out, as if through iron bars, whilst Ruth and Mildred, were so very much – how could he put it? – hearty and in the world. They were a lot better integrated into society and yet at the same time not hampered or institutionalized in any way. Though not themselves mainstream per se, they could nevertheless operate in that mainstream of society, whilst he felt somehow marginalized.

They stopped for lunch for a while at a wayside hostelry that day while the coachman changed the horses and rested himself. The inn was actually slightly off the official route, but the driver assured them that the slight detour would be well worth their while, and so it was. Apparently what they did was leave one set of horses at the inn and then pick them up again on the way back, or else the next coach would pick up those horses when they came through.

Again they ate with Mildred and they could have a good chin wag. George was actually growing quite fond of her after what was, admittedly, a shaky start. You could probably have listened to that lady for days on end, even weeks and such was the depth and breadth of her store of knowledge that she wouldn't once have to repeat herself for lack of something to say; and nor would she ever bore her listeners, unless they were utter ignoramuses. Okay, so he was a latter day reformed ignoramus.

The subject had inevitably got round again to their being on the road together. Ruth had been through her family history and he what little he knew of his own, and they'd also talked of the hold that the gang had had over them. However, they both glossed over much of the detail, for fear that this would go a step beyond even what that dear lady was able to tolerate. The last thing George wanted was to alienate Mildred and he got the impression that this was Ruth's thinking, too, though of course at the time, he couldn't ask her outright to confirm this impression. All George could do was watch intently to gauge Ruth's reaction as he talked and hope that, had he ventured too far, that she would have given him a gentle nudge with her foot, or even a kick, under the table.

“And when you get to Upper Wyevale, what then? Do you intend to look for work, or to move on from there?” Mildred asked when they paused for breath.

George looked at Ruth and she looked back at him. That was a question to which, perhaps, only Ruth knew the answer. At least George sincerely hoped that Ruth had thought things through at least this far.

“You know, you won't find much work at Upper Wyevale, except perhaps at the Jolly Roger, and that is a den of iniquity, so you'd do well to steer well clear of there. Other than that, there's only work in the fields, and that is only seasonal; this being, in addition, the wrong time of year.”

Ruth said nothing, so the lady continued.

“Now if you intend staying in Hodweir, you're more likely to find work – well, work of sorts – at Hornsby. By that I mean wretched menial work and not a rewarding lifelong career. Hornsby's a friendly market town to the west and also close to the border. Or there's Dunston, which is a larger town, a few miles further north. I'd say that Dunston is the more cosmopolitan, though of course that's relative to the rest of Hodweir and not to the rich tapestry of the greater world. Nowhere is particularly cosmopolitan this side of the border. Let's say that Dunston is a little less staid, more open minded and accepting and more forward thinking than most.”

“Where would you go, Mildred?” Ruth asked, by way of a reply.

“Given youth and a level playing field?”

Ruth flicked her long hair back behind her ear and nodded.

“Sher Point, without question. Or rather the suburbs, rather than the new inner city. I can't abide the hustle and bustle, the steel and concrete of modern inner cities, though of course tastes vary.”

“Where's that?” George asked in all innocence and they both looked at him, though they didn't give him a queer look as some might.

“Sher Point is the capital of the Freelands,” Ruth gently answered him.

He flushed. “Sorry, that much I do know, but I mean I'm not sure where it would be on the map, or relative to where we are now.”

“Oh, I see. And you've been there?” she asked, turning back to Mildred.

“Oh yes, on numerous occasions in my married, working life, before they pulled down the shutters, that is. In answer to your question George, by nightfall we'll have reached Upper Wyevale, which is due south of here. You go a few hours through that valley and you come to the border. A few more, still heading south and you come to the town of Middleton where I have relatives. And Sher Point is a day to a day and a half’s journey further south. You can get there by steam train in half the time, but you'll find it devilishly expensive. There's also an express coach, but again it will cost you an arm and a leg. So most ordinary folk still take the slow coach, which you'll find takes an eternity, zigzagging back and forth all the way, picking up and dropping off at every town and village. So it's pretty much a toss up between too major inconveniences: either the money or the time. Alas, there is no cheap and cheerful alternative, unless you have your own motorized transport or are not concerned about going anywhere in a hurry.”

Mildred seemed to catch herself and she laughed. “But here I am getting ahead of myself, giving you directions and not thinking that you might be heading elsewhere.”

“Well we did begin by asking where you'd go, given free rein,” Ruth reminded the lady.

“Oh yes, of course, you're quite right, my dear. And off I jolly well went! I sometimes lose myself in thought, like our friend George here.”

George looked up, not realizing that he'd drifted into a reverie. “Sorry, did someone call my name? I was miles away.”

Ruth tickled his ribs and he sat there squirming before breaking free. “You're quite right, though, Mildred,” she nodded. “That is where I hoped we might head.”

“But we have no visa, and that's a necessity,” George pointed out. Even he knew that much.

“Where there is a will, there is a way,” Mildred offered hopefully, but at the time, this sounded quite lame. For a time, that unresolved issue had them all stumped, and Mildred thought it best to change the subject for the time being, rather than brood on this.

“Let's just pop that one on a low light on the back burner for a while, “she suggested.

“Actually, that reminds me of a quandary of my own,” George admitted. “One way or another, we're going to have to start earning our keep, unless we want to end up as vagrants, begging and scavenging on the streets. I've worked my way through the A to Z of possible occupations and racked my brains and I can't think of one thing that I'd either like to do or be able to do.”

Mildred smiled. “Again, I'd suggest simply allowing these thoughts, and the pressing needs behind them, to gently simmer. You might be surprised at what emerges of its own accord when we stop trying to will things to happen or to be a certain way. My advice to you, for whatever it may be worth, is to not hobble your destiny through habit and lack of imagination; simply be willing to take whatever it offers, for who knows to what greater opportunities that might ultimately lead?

“I once worked for a charity and for many years we spent our time giving out food. This went on and on and simply consumed all of our time and all of our resources; until that is, I happened to pick up a book at a second-hand bookshop and on the very first page I came to, opening the book quite at random, I read these words:

“Don't keep giving them food. Give them the means to grow their own.

“In other words, provide them with food and they'll eat for a day; teach them how to grow their own, and they'll be fed for a lifetime. That is what the charity has been doing ever since: helping these people to become self-sufficient. Well, if the truth be told, none of us are truly self-sufficient, we are helped by subtle forces and agencies, and few of us are what you might term truly 'free agents' or 'free radicals', but that's another story for another day.

“Nevertheless, that one simple shift in our organizational paradigm – which doesn't have to be limited to food aid, of course, but which may be transferred and applied to any number of other operations – utterly revolutionized our work with disadvantaged people and made us and them far more efficient. And this came about through an extraordinary, yet everyday and unexpected coincidence. If there is such a thing as 'mere coincidence', that is, which through life-long experience I now very much doubt.

“It also came through a quite unexpected source. We could have pedantically and systematically worked our way through the A to Z of authors over a period of years or even decades looking for inspiration, and still not found anything but confusion and frustration, whilst instead we simply and accidentally stumbled upon it without any effort at all, except to the extent that we had formulated intentions and questions about their implementation in our mind. That's what originally primed the system or set things in motion, and led to the eventual yahoo! moment, if you like. And you may be surprised just how often this kind of thing happens once you learn to really open your eyes and attune yourself to the process.

“This kind of answer, which is the real world's response to you, can arrive from any direction and at any moment: perhaps within seconds; or days, months, even years later. It can arrive in a simple aside in a quite unrelated article in the morning newspaper, or in an everyday conversation with a neighbour, or whilst you lay in the bath dreaming. And it can arrive as a gentle whisper, or like the kiss of a lover, or a timely intervention when your life is at a crossroads; even with the roar of a trumpet so loud that it threatens to blow your house down. By house, I mean one's selfhood and the plans one has made. If an answer does come in such an undeniable form, however, it's simply that you haven't been listening to all the far more subtle promptings and answers that preceded and foreshadowed it. These things never happen in isolation; there are always intuitions and promptings and clues beforehand.”

Dear Mildred was quite the philosopher, George mused. There was far more to this old lady than met the eye, that was by now quite clear. He turned to Ruth and he could see that she, too, appeared quite enthralled.

“Perugenny ferugor'em?” Ruth asked him.

Mildred raised her eyebrows.

“Ruth said she'd give me a penny for them, for my thoughts, that is,” George answered. “It's a language the gang made up, so that we could talk amongst ourselves without anyone close by being able to listen into our conversations.”

“Yes, I gathered as much,” Mildred nodded, “except such language is a lot older than you might imagine. When I was in my teens, a friend and I used a very similar code language which we thought our parents would not understand. I hadn't concocted the language, so I can only assume that my friend had learnt it from someone else. It was years later, when we were both grown up, that we discovered that my father also knew the language well and had been privy to everything we had said, swear words and all. The only difference between your dialect and ours is that you interpose the sound 'erug' whilst we used 'ay', and the consonants are arranged differently. So whilst you would say Perugenny ferugor'em, we would say Ennypay orfay emthay.”

Well, that was quite an eye opener.

Ruth returned to Mildred's earlier remarks: “What you were saying earlier about letting things simmer and about answers arriving of their own accord ….”

“Yes,” Mildred nodded. “Do go on, my dear.”

“Well, my initial reaction was that this sounded rather mystical, and I was wondering what you might have to say about that.”

The old lady's eyes lit up. “Well indeed. As I said – or at least I think I did – I grew up in Erigwid, and that country's culture has long been steeped in religion, spirituality and mysticism. If religion is represented by – shall we say – the skeletal system, then mysticism is the life-bringing marrow, the circulatory system, the heart and so forth. Each has its rightful place and its specialist function. So, yes, some of that rubbed off on me and, of course, I've read quite a lot about it over the years.”

“I thought perhaps there was more than that,” Ruth suggested. Mildred stroked her chin and smiled. “My, you are perceptive, my dear. And yes, you're right again. My father's work took us around the world and we spent three years in Narayana when he worked for the consulate there, in the capital. He, too, had an interest in such things, and as well as reading to me, he employed one of the Narayani mystics' senior students to be my personal tutor. So I, too, became steeped in the mysteries from an early age.”

“Is he still alive?” Ruth asked. “And are you still in touch?”

Mildred sighed. “Alas no, Tashi had succeeded his own master and died peacefully over twenty years ago at a retreat in the northern mountains of Narayana. However, his eldest son and I still keep in touch. His name is Sonam, which means someone who is gifted, or the fortunate one.”

“Now there's a thought.” At this point, Mildred's eyes again lit up. “Until recently, Sonam has lived exclusively in Narayana. However, I received a letter from him perhaps a year ago to say that he was moving to the Freelands to lay the foundations of a new phase of work here. Indeed, in his latest letter he told me that he has bought a house on the outskirts of Sher Point which he intends to turn into a study centre. And he invited me to visit him at any time.”

Ruth was clearly intrigued by this, but for a time Mildred said nothing, as if lost in thought.

“Well, that settles it,” Mildred said at length, clapping her hands on her thighs. “I have no other plans, so I think after the funeral, rather than heading straight home, I shall journey south to visit my dear friend, Sonam.”

Ruth seemed to know where this was heading. “You don't have to do that on our account,” she suggested.

Mildred was adamant. “No, this is something I really need to do in any case, my dear, and apart from that, I really want to see my friend. But again you are right on the money, as they say. If anyone can fathom where your destiny might lead and be in a position to help you achieve that destiny in a practical way, then it is Sonam.”

“Only if you're sure and you're not secretly feeling obliged, Mildred. And I wouldn't want your friend Sonam to feel obliged in turn.”

Mildred leant across the table and gently patted Ruth's arm. “Ruth, I have seldom been more sure in my life and this is something that I both need to do and also would dearly love to do. I have been helped in my time on countless occasions and now – whilst I am still capable – it's time to return that generosity at least in some small way. This is what Sonam's tradition is all about and he would call it the hidden economy, fed not by money and greed but by love, pure and simple. You see the best and truly golden opportunities do not arise to benefit oneself, but in order to benefit others; and, sadly, that's why so many are missed: through crude self-interest. In the Tradition, they give unstintingly and they also know the value of receiving gratefully. It is rightly said that as you give, so you receive, though the mechanism by which this is achieved is not universally known and appreciated.”

“And our meeting here like this, this is not mere happenstance, my dear. No, this is the Design at work,” the lady added.

“I don't mean to butt in, but what about your own visa, Mildred?” George wanted to enquire before he lost the thread of the conversation and forgot.

“Oh, that's no problem for me, I can come and go as I please. You see I was born a Freelander and I have my passport with me. I keep it renewed and mostly use it whenever anyone asks for identification, you see.”

That puzzled George. If Mildred's father had worked as a consular official and if she had been born in the Freelands, then why had she ended up living in Hodweir of all places at a time when they were at war with what was to become the Freelands? He didn't get a chance to ask that perplexing question, however.

Spotting the coach driver and his mate heading for the front door, Mildred got up from the table with renewed vigour and brushed down her thick tweed, knee-length skirt. “Now, my friends, we must hurry. Time's pressing and we don't want the carriage to leave without us.”

10. Upper Wyevale

After what seemed like an age, they finally arrived at Upper Wyevale, a sizeable and charmingly rustic hamlet that stood at the head of the Wye valley, one of just three designated and permitted thoroughfares between Hodweir and the Freelands.

The coach pulled up not far from a war memorial, set back from the road on an old village green, and opposite that stood what Mildred referred to as the infamous Jolly Roger. Like all the other buildings in the area, it was built of roughly hewn limestone and fenced with high drystone walls. Mildred told them that even in these relatively less barbaric times, the inn was still a safe haven and port of call for smugglers, latter day brigands and other ne'er-do-wells. In turning a blind eye and catering for their questionable tastes, it remained a popular haunt for such people.

“Whatever you do, my dear,” the old lady abruptly remarked, stopping for a moment and turning in George's direction: “Do not fall for the seductive lure of the dark side.”

George and Ruth each took one of the lady's heavy bags, travelling lightly themselves, and Mildred gently steered them past the Jolly Roger and further along the road past the old church, then first left down a narrow winding lane. They walked for perhaps ten minutes before coming to a low wooden gate where Mildred stopped and announced that they had arrived. Pushing the gate open and being sure to close it behind them as one did when out in the country, they walked down a short garden to stand before a quaint two storey cottage. Some of the red and yellow roses lining the way and climbing the walls were still in bloom even at this time of year, though clearly past their best and almost ready for dead heading, unless you were waiting for the rose hips. The hips made fine syrup and wine.

Mildred had raised her hand and was about to use the door knocker when the door opened, quite startling the old lady. A friendly face appeared in the doorway and held out her arms. “Auntie Mildred, how good to see you. I'm so glad that you've made it here safely.”

They stood on the doorstep for a few moments, then the young lady turned to Ruth and George. “Hello, have you brought friends with you?”

That put George in a bit of a spot, then he spotted the cardboard sign in one of the windows by the door, which read “Bed, breakfast and evening meal”. “Well, we've travelled with Mildred all the way in the coach and become fast friends, but actually we're looking for rooms for a few days.

“As paying guests that is,” he hastened to add. “If you have vacancies ....”

The young lady smiled. “Indeed we do. We always have vacancies at this time of year. Anyway, I'm being rude. Please do come in, and let me help you off with your coats. Then we can go through to the living room and you can warm yourself by the fire. If I'd known you were coming, I could have lit a fire in the guest lounge, but it's too late in the evening now to make much difference. Anyhow, go through and make yourselves comfortable while I put the kettle on. And I expect you must be quite hungry after your journey, so I'll prepare a light supper.”

“If it's not too much trouble,” Ruth replied. “Coming here without prior warning, we don't want to put you out.”

“Oh, it's no trouble at all ….”

“Ruth, Ruth Brierdene. And this is my good friend George Mackfee. We'll be wanting two single rooms if you have them.”

“Good to meet you Ruth and George. I'm Rachel Longhorn, Aunt Mildred's niece.” The lady shook their hands and guided them through to her living room.

“It really is no trouble at all,” the young lady continued. “We always keep the beds aired. We don't have a short season as they do in seaside resorts. Though we get more during the summer months, we have a regular dribble throughout the year, unless there's been heavy snow.”

Only then did it occur to George that this lady, who was perhaps in her twenties, must be the daughter of Mildred's deceased younger sister and when Rachel brought in the tea pot and supper, Rachel and Mildred spent some time commiserating with one-another and sharing fond memories; so not wishing to intrude, George and Ruth were content to quietly listen.

The next day, it was the funeral and after a rather subdued breakfast, Rachel thoughtfully left them a key so that George and Ruth could come and go as they pleased. They seemed a trusting lot out here in the country. And, free of charge, the young lady had made them sandwiches and bottled some lemonade. It was made from sugar, real lemon juice and sparkling spring water, not the newfangled fizzy sugar water that they had recently started selling in towns.

It was quite a sunny day, with just a few wispy clouds in the sky and though not warm, it was pleasant enough out, so he and Ruth spent the whole morning walking along the nearby river banks and wandering through the natural mixed woodland, which was wonderfully relaxing and re-energizing. So much of the woodland and forestry had fallen to the axe in the first Great War and then again, yet more in the Second, leaving acre after acre of barren moorland. They'd started replanting in certain areas, but these were managed and regimented forests, monocultures of quick growing pine, all much of a muchness and too little, too late.

Finally they stopped for a time to rest their legs and have lunch under the vast and majestic canopy of an old oak tree, before wending their way back to the guest house, to arrive back by mid afternoon, suitably refreshed.

One or two family friends had returned with Mildred and Rachel after the funeral, so Ruth thought it best if she and George left them to themselves and they spent some time alone in George's room, passing the time playing board games that the landlady had thoughtfully provided for the guests' entertainment.

Come six o'clock, however, Rachel gently banged her gong downstairs to signal time to eat and they left their game half played and descended the stairs. There was a delightful and mouth watering aroma in the air. The others had gone by now, with the exception of one young man who had stayed behind. He had eyes for their hostess and she for him; that was quite clear. The living room being too cramped for five people, they all ate together in the guests' lounge which also doubled up as a dining room, that evening. The young man, whose name was Hector, had thoughtfully brought with him a bottle of red wine and he shared it around, even offering George and Ruth a small glass each, with Mildred's permission, she being the most senior and wise of those present.

After they'd all mucked in to clear away the meal and wash the pots, at Ruth's insistence, they went back to sit in the lounge and engage in chit chat. George had mentioned to Ruth his not quite understanding how Mildred had ended up in Hodweir and it was she who was brave enough to broach what could have been a delicate subject.

“That's a very good question, my dear,” Mildred smiled, “and no I don't mind attempting to answer it. This is something that perplexed me, too, for many years until, after my father's death, I finally persuaded Mother to answer for me. You'd be surprised by just how many people have skeletons of one sort or another in their family wardrobes. The vast majority, I'd say; though most would vehemently deny it. If people were only a little more open and honest and simply more human with one-another, instead of being pretentious and hiding these things, out of fear and shame, and of keeping up a façade, then this would no longer be the major issue it is.

“Anyhow, where was I? Oh yes. I'm sorry, I lost my bearings for a moment. Even years before war was officially declared, the powers that be in the Freelands knew that there was trouble brewing and feared that it might lead to a war for which they were at that time ill prepared. After the breakup of the Chongen Dynasty, which had after all been a stabilizing influence, nationalism reared its ugly head on more than one occasion, and there were even those who wanted to see a return to what they saw as the 'good old days' of the dynasty, so there was that tension, too; even the threat of belated counter revolution. The whole of the western world was in a state of fomentation. There were some, in seats of influence and power, who sought to appease, whilst many feared the worst; and rightly so, as it happens.

“Evidence came to light that my father, who at that time worked for a government department in the Freelands, had been spying and, getting wind of his imminent arrest, he was forced to flee to Hodweir and seek sanctuary there. This made the headlines in a number of newspapers and it was a major scandal at the time. By all accounts, it was a ghastly business. I mean, you can imagine how the rest of the family were treated as a result of this and how they must have felt.

“But all was not as it seems. You see this whole escapade had been orchestrated from the very beginning, feeding the Hodweiri with just enough genuine intelligence, liberally interlarded with false intelligence, for my father to worm his way into their trust. He was not in fact a sympathizer working as an agent for the Hodweiri, but secretly working for what would become the Alliance as a double agent. Of course, there were those who questioned whether he might even have been a triple agent – if you can get your head round that – but from what I've heard and read subsequently, I'm pretty certain that this was not the case. And, yes, I would be honest and straight forward with you now, had I found otherwise.

“Now, whilst my father was in Hodweir, he fell in love with a wonderful woman who was to become my mother. After the war, still very much in love, the two of them married and my father intended to return to the Freelands with his new bride. Indeed, he got as far as the border. But, alas, the authorities would not allow my mother to come and pass.”

The old lady paused for a moment and pulled out a tiny frilly handkerchief from up her sleeve, to wipe away a stray tear. Even these many years later, this must have still moved her.

“So, to cut a long story short, you see – and I should have thought of this myself – my father simply chose love before duty. The authorities requested that he return and, without his beloved, he declined. And for this act of what they saw as wilful disobedience, the authorities refused, in return, to reveal the truth behind the prior scandal, to exonerate him and to cleanse the family name.

“People can be so arrogant, pigheaded and hard hearted, you know. Indeed this tendency appears to be one of the requirements in many senior governmental posts and amongst the entrepreneurs and captains of industry; even something to be feted and applauded as a superior and evolved human quality. To my mind, such behaviour might be better described as neanderthal, with a lower case en, so as not to tar our distant ancestors of the same name with this brush. Of course, watching this behaviour is not without entertainment value, but far less so for those unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end of these boorish, ill-mannered, coarse and contemptible people's attention. Oh, forgive me, there I am going off at a tangent again. If I stray too far, you must reel me in.”

“But, Mildred, I thought you said that he worked as a consular official and that his work took him, and later you, all around the world?” George queried.

Mildred nodded. “The old administration that had led the Alliance into war had crumbled by that time. They had proved very good at waging war, but they were next to useless at managing the post-war civilian society, and the people no longer wanted them in power. As so frequently happens, out went the old and in came the new. My father's case was brought before the authorities again and he was indeed duly, if quietly, reinstated. He returned to work for the government as a consular official and he travelled the world in the Freelanders' behalf. However he steadfastly refused, to the day he died, to ever set foot in the Freelands again. You see, this whole episode had hurt him and my mother so deeply, and this was – misguided as it may appear – a matter of great principle to him. Bless Father's memory, he was good and caring, but he was not the most flexible or forgiving of men.”

“And yet you said earlier that you were born in the Freelands, Mildred,” George again queried.

Again Mildred nodded. “I was a Freelander. Now, can you guess how this might have come about?”

“I got it!” Ruth piped up. “Or at least I think I do.”

Mildred smiled. “I thought you might, Ruth. You are such a perceptive girl. Pray tell ….”

“The premises and grounds of a foreign embassy or consulate do not belong to the host nation. They are considered to be sovereign soil of the guests.”

Mildred laughed and shook her head. “That's actually a common misconception, my dear, though you nearly have it. An embassy remains under the jurisdiction of the host country and special privileges are extended toward the guest. Now, one of those privileges in the Freelands, and elsewhere amongst those countries signed up to the post-war agreements, confers dual nationality on the offspring of any diplomat born within the grounds of an embassy. This is not automatically conferred, however: it requires a written request from the ambassador and is subject to independent scrutiny.”

“Of course there are notable exceptions like the Nur Galanese who have steadfastly refused to sign up to such agreements. With a paranoid and hypocritical leadership, they like to poke their noses in our business, but they don't want any of us poking our noses into theirs. The Nur Galanese are a lovely people – don't get me wrong – but their leaders, as with some of our more fundamentalist religious brethren, view our modern culture as some kind of life-threatening contagious disease spreading inexorably across the face of the earth; a deeply corrupting influence from which their people must be protected at all costs. And at great cost, I might add. Yet in a way, sadly, perhaps they're not so very wrong. But as the saying goes, two wrongs do not make a right ….”

11. Anxious times

Ruth and George had been at Upper Wyevale for over a week now and still they'd received no word to say, at least, that Mildred had safely made it to Sher Point. But then there were no phones in Hodweir in those days and the post was delivered to the hamlet only once a week. Indeed, if it weren't for the fact that the market town of Hornsby to the west was relatively near, they might not have received any post at all, unless they had gone to town to collect it. Fortunately, the district council had come to an arrangement with the postal service: the national postage would be paid by the sender and, on receipt, recipients in outlying rural areas would pay an additional local postage due, to be split between the district council and the stage coach companies who would operate the local delivery service. If there was a lot of mail, then it would be delivered by coach, en route; and if there was a little, then it would be delivered by a courier on horseback.

These were worrying times for Ruth and George. They trusted Mildred, and if she had said that she would consult her friend and mentor Sonam about the matter, then this is exactly what she would do. There was no doubt about that. But whether Sonam would be in a position to help in any concrete way, that was another matter entirely, and was very much in the lap of the gods. What it all boiled down to was the fact that the only way to get them into the Freelands would be to break the law in one way or another, and who could blame the man if he was unwilling to countenance such a thing? Heck, the man would probably be breaking two or three laws. Abducting minors; assisting known felons and assisting in the cross-border transportation of illegal aliens.

Sonam might, instead, suggest an alternative course of action, and both he and especially Ruth had their hearts so set on finding a new life in the Freelands. This prospect grew increasingly more likely in George's mind. And who could blame the guy? Neither of them were the type who'd settle for, say, mind-numbingly humdrum and repetitive manual work in some out of the way town. One of the reasons they'd run away in the first place was the looming prospect of such a thing befalling them. And as he ruminated on these words, George had an awful thought: that Sonam would simply advise them to go back home, and that was a prospect he could not at all stomach. There was no way he could betray Ruth and do that. Full stop.

“You worry too much, George,” Ruth consoled him that day, stroking her hand gently through his hair. “I didn't come away with you to make you feel bad. That's the last thing I would have wanted. Just stay calm and trust that everything will turn out well. If Mildred's friend can't help, then that will be sad, but it won't be the end of the world. We would simply have to make our own way across. This valley can't be the only way into the Freelands and they can't man all the possible entry points. I mean, there's mile upon mile of undulating moorland and thick undergrowth, so I'm sure we could sneak in at dead of night ….”

George gave Ruth a friendly hug. “Don't you worry about me, either. I'm sure you're right, Ruth. I'm not going back you know, and there is absolutely no way I'm going to leave you on your own.”

Ruth smiled and gave him a tender kiss on the cheek. “That's sweet, George.”

As he said those words, however, George realized that perhaps he'd given away the fact that this is what he had been secretly dreading might happen.

12. A welcome visitor

“Hello,” Mildred called brightly through the open doorway. There were painters hard at work in the entrance hall and she wasn't sure if the shiny varnish on the door was still wet, so she daren't knock. “Hello!” she called again.

One of the painters turned for a moment, seeing her there and carefully climbed down from his steps and put his paint pot and brush down.

“Good lord,” replied the man when he caught sight of Mildred and, recognizing that happy, chubby face, it was her turn to look surprised. “Mildred, well I never. How good to see you.”

It was Sonam himself. Though he was a Master in his own right now, yes, she should have expected that he'd have his sleeves rolled up, joining in with the others.

“Sonam, it is so good to see you, too. And clearly in rude health, I'm so glad to see.”

Sonam wiped his hands on a rag in his pocket and gingerly leant forward to kiss her on the cheek. “Mildred, do come in. I'm sorry, the room which is to be my study is still in an awful state with piles of books all over the floor and furniture, so please, follow me through to the kitchen and I'll get Cook to make us a nice hot cuppa. And you must be famished if you've been travelling. I'll get her to rustle up some soup and sandwiches.”

“Well, I did eat on the way, but I do have a hole in my stomach to fill,” she smiled.

“You can leave your bags here in the hallway for now. If only I'd known, I'd have met you at the station and given you a lift. That's it. Don't worry, your bags will be quite safe here. And if you're staying – and you surely must – then I'll have someone sort a room out for you later.”

Sonam led her through the entrance hall and down first one long, cork-floored corridor and then left down another until finally they arrived at the kitchen.

“I must say, this is a fine residence you have here,” she marvelled.

“Far more than a personal residence, dear Mildred. I occupy but a little part of it. This is Foxholes and it is to be a study and operations centre for the Work. The first of its kind in the west, I might add. I have high hopes for us.”

When Sonam arrived at the kitchen, which was already spotless, in spite of all the work going on around it, he looked around for Cook, but she was nowhere to be seen, then a young man, probably still in his late teens, popped his head round one of the doors.

“Ah, Tenzing. This is a dear friend of mine, Mildred. Mildred, this is Tenzing, one of my young protégés.”

The lad smiled warmly, came forward and shook her hand.

“Tenzing, would you be a dear?” Sonam showed his paint-speckled hands. “It's not so much the paint as the spirit we use to clean our hands and brushes. It taints the taste of everything it touches, you see. Anyhow, Tenzing, would you mind making us a pot of tea and seeing if Cook's left any sandwiches for us in the larder? You don't mind? Oh, thank you, that would be a great help.”

Sonam left the kitchen and showed her next door, into what looked like it would be a dining area once it was finished.

“I'm going to have the men knock an archway into next door and this will be our cafeteria,” Sonam explained, wiping away a thin film of dust from the top of one of the tables. He helped her into a chair and drew up a chair for himself.

“So, Mildred, tell me what's been happening in your life ….” Sonam prompted, as Tenzing came over with some cups, saucers and side plates.

“I'll be back in a minute with the tea and sandwiches,” the lad told them.

“Well, very little since my hubby Harold died,” she sighed. “Except burying my sister and two dear friends all in the space of a year.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, Mildred. Are you lonely now?” Sonam asked her.

“Well, I still have the odd friend left, but yes, I get awfully lonely, Sonam; especially during the long winter nights. Well, the long winter's days, for that matter. Sometimes I can go days without speaking to another living soul. It's no fun growing old on your own, you know. No fun at all.”

Sonam nodded sadly. “Yes, so I can imagine.”

They paused for a moment whilst Tenzing passed round the sandwiches and poured their tea.

“You know, Mildred, I can see that you are still very much young at heart and still have a great deal to offer. I'm not looking for any promises from you, but please consider this. There is more than enough room for you here at Foxholes, and you'll be glad to know that it's not all in a state of upheaval and that what upheaval there is will not last. And when I say room, I don't just mean for a fleeting visit. If you wish, feel free to make Foxholes your new home and stay for as long as you like. There is so much going on here, even now, that I can promise you, you would not feel lonely here.”

Mildred pulled out a lace handkerchief from up her sleeve and wiped away a stray tear. “Thank you, Sonam. That's a gracious and generous offer. I think it's something to which I should give serious consideration, so I shan't respond now, if you don't mind ….”

Sonam gently patted her hand. “I wouldn't expect you to answer straight away, Mildred. It's not a decision to be made lightly, on the spur of the moment. So take all the time you need. There's neither rush nor the least obligation.”

After their late lunch, Sonam found one of the others, a young lady, and asked her if she wouldn't mind finding bedding and towels and sorting out a room for Mildred. This was one of Sonam's senior students and he'd brought her with him from Narayana.

“If you'll forgive me for a few minutes, Mildred, I'll leave you in Choden's capable hands; and while you freshen up, I'll go and soak my paintbrush in some spirits to prevent it from drying out, and get changed into something more fitting. When we return, I'll give you a guided tour. Then come teatime, I thought perhaps I might take you out to dinner?”

“Thank you, Sonam, that would be delightful. I shan't say 'Don't go to too much trouble,' since we're old friends and I already know your response to that.”

True to his word, Sonam gave her the guided tour and mentally counting the rooms upstairs which were all built on quite a grand scale, and the rooms downstairs where classes and circles might be held, she could see the enormous potential.

“This is no chicken shack operation, Sonam,” she bowed appreciatively. “I can see that you mean business.”

“Yes, there's so much potential here,” he agreed, “and a desperate need in society, too. Our coffers are not bottomless, but at the present time, money is not an object; and as you know, I'm sure, when operations such as this are established, if there is ever a real need, then that need will be met.”

“Yes, that's quite magical to behold,” she nodded enthusiastically.

“Here, let me take you outside to stroll through the grounds. As you'll see, should we ever need to expand, there is more than sufficient space for that.”

“I'm still thinking of what you said earlier, you know, Sonam. I can see that you'll need all the help you can get. I live so far away, up north in Hodweir, though, and being on my own in a large house, I have five times as much furniture as I need. I'm not sure that I'd be up to all the fuss and the stress of moving.”

“Well, I know several strong chaps, Mildred, and a man with a very large furniture van. If you could make tea for them, I'm sure that no more would be required of you ….”

A light went on in Mildred's mind at that moment and she told Sonam as much.

“Things are beginning to click into place, Sonam. You will be in need of furniture and I have five perfectly good beds. Two doubles and three singles; and tables and chairs … heavens we have so many things in that house that we collected over the years. If you could provide a van and strong arms, then perhaps you might clear the house and take that by way of recompense? And what you can't use, you can always sell to boost your funds? Some of the items are valuable antiques, but they’re no use to me. I'm getting on and without children of my own, and I can't take these things with me, not that I'd want to.”

They'd crossed the grounds by now and come to the foot of a gently sloping hill. Sonam took her arm and gently helped her up the slope, then he stopped half way and turned and led her through the bushes until they came to an old iron gate, supported by a large granite post. Moving still further in, she was delighted to see a lily pond, though it was clearly stagnant and in need of repair, surrounded by several large granite rocks that might serve as seats.

“Welcome to the hidden garden,” Sonam smiled. “I found it quite by chance whilst wondering up the hill one day, and I intend to return it to its former glory. It's actually meant to be fed by a spring, but the inlet pipe has become clogged. Nothing that can't be fixed, however, given a little time and tender loving care.”

“Good Lord, it's marvellous,” she replied. “And you have orchids here.”

The man nodded eagerly. “And rather rare orchids at that.”

“Here, take a seat and we'll rest for a few minutes.” And that said, Sonam reached inside his jacket pocket, brought out his flute, screwed the pieces together, attached the mouthpiece and began to play the most haunting melodies. He was a truly accomplished musician, as well as a wise Master of the Way, and they sat there for some time before Sonam put his flute away and they moved on.

There was something else that Mildred had to ask Sonam about, and something else that had clicked for her, but she'd bide her time until they were seated and eating their meal.

At the top of the hill they looked back on the splendid house and its grounds, and only then did Mildred fully appreciate just how wonderful and stately it was. Then they moved on, leaving the dirt track and coming to a road leading up toward a village. Before they got to the village, they came upon a quaint old inn, nestling in amongst the trees, and Sonam took her in here to find something to eat. They had tables in the back, too, in a little rose garden, though it was the wrong time of year and the wrong time of day to be sitting outside, at least at her age.

After they'd ordered their food and had a sip of the delicious mead Sonam had recommended, she turned to the Master. “Something else clicked into place earlier, too, Sonam; but there's a story I must tell first leading up to that – quite a long and involved story – and then I really need to ask your advice about that matter, so please bear with me.”

“Take as long as you need, Mildred. I am all ears,” Sonam nodded.

And so Mildred told the Master about meeting Ruth and George and the story that they had recounted to her during the long journey south through Hodweir, or at least as much as she could recall. She paused for a few moments whilst their food was being served and then, as was the custom, she waited until they had finished eating before continuing.

After dinner, they had another glass of mead and sat there for a good half hour before getting up to wander back to the house. Indeed, it was a long story, and she only finished telling it when they'd arrived at the house. Again, Sonam took her through to the kitchen and they sat in the cafeteria for some time while Mildred plucked up the courage to continue.

“I hope you don't find me presumptuous, Sonam, but I told these dear youngsters that if there was one man who could advise them wisely about the quandary they find themselves in, then it is you.”

Sonam smiled and reached inside his jacket pocket to pour a little chungari[12] into the teapot before giving it a final stir and pouring it out. “Not at all, Mildred, you did the right thing. I must say, our friends have got themselves in a bit of a pickle, haven't they?

“Now, tell me about this thing that 'clicked' for you, the connection that you made; though if you'll indulge me, Mildred, I think that I can guess.”

13. A knock on the door

George and Ruth had not heard from Mildred for over a week now and their spirits were running low, which was not that unusual for George but unusual and worrying to see in the usually effervescent Ruth.

On top of that, George had been having those nightmares again and had not slept at all well for the last three or four nights. She'd finally coaxed the lad to tell her what the nightmares were all about and it was always the same story, over and over again, about being convicted of some unspecified crime that he either did not commit or at least could not recall committing, and of being cast into a dark cell. And, sleeping in separate rooms on a night, there wasn't a whole lot that she could do to help the poor lad.

“I think that we should give it until the end of the week and then we'll make our own arrangements,” Ruth decided, throwing down her cards and giving the game up as a bad loss. “I'm sorry, George, but with this dark cloud hanging over us, I can't concentrate and I'm simply not enjoying this game.”

By this time, they'd thoroughly explored what there was to see up and down river and they'd been through all the board games the landlady had provided for their amusement.

“We could always go up to the Jolly Roger and get blitzed,”[13] George suggested.

“Well, you could pass for sixteen at a pinch, but I don't think they'd serve me,” Ruth sighed.

“Given what Mildred had to say about the place, they may not ask any questions,” he suggested.

Ruth laughed. “Given what Mildred had to say, I can see us getting into a whole heap of trouble going there. And the last thing we need right now is more trouble.”

“How do you mean?”

“I don't know. Just call it a hunch,” Ruth shrugged. “We're in a vulnerable position and we could so easily get sucked in by unscrupulous people … as we found to our shame in Sher Point. There are many who prey on the vulnerable. And what was it Mildred said about not falling for the seductive lure of the dark side?”

“Yes, you're probably right,” he nodded. “Anyhow, it's nearly lunch time. We should have a walk into the village to get a meat pie or something from the butcher's.”

Ruth groaned at the prospect of yet another meat pie. “I know you don't mind eating the same thing day in and day out, George, but I prefer a little variety. Let's see if there's a bakery with something else on offer, like cheese and onion flan, or something. Anything, for that matter.”

They were coming downstairs when they heard a loud knock on the door and Rachel came through from the guests' lounge to answer it. Ruth stopped dead in her tracks.

There was a stocky-looking man at the door and he took off his hat as Rachel opened the door.

“Yes, sir. How can I help you?”

“Good day, madam. I hope so. I'm looking for two youngsters who've been staying here ….

Ruth and George exchanged worried glances and she clutched his hand tightly.

“Oh, that'll be Ruth and George. I believe they're still in. Yes, their coats are still there on the hooks. I'll call them. Who shall I say it is?”

“Well, they won't know me, but they'll know Mildred. Tell them it's Mildred's friend.”

“Right you are. Ru..uth. Geo..orge.”

Ruth breathed a sigh of relief and let go of George's arm, that she'd been clutching tightly. For an awful moment she'd thought perhaps the police had caught up with them; even, in a paranoid moment, that it was one of Hatchet's acquaintances. The Hockney Dare Devils was kindergarten stuff really, and Hatchet was involved in all sorts of even more nefarious activity. The Dare Devils had originally been established as a college stunt for pretty harmless thrills, but over the course of several years, it had morphed into something far more sinister, with the secret backing of hardened adult criminals, and chapters popping up all over the place.

“Coming,” Ruth lilted after a suitable pause, coming down the last flight of stairs with George in tow.

“There's a gentleman to see you. Please, don't stand there on the doorstep. Come in and you can sit in the lounge.”

“I'm Sonam,” the man greeted them as they entered the lounge behind him. “Mildred is an old friend of mine.”

“Oh yes, she told me she'd have a word with you,” Ruth lilted, coming forward and pumping the man's hand. “It's good to finally meet you, sir, and so good of you to come all this way. I'm deeply touched.”

“Could you go a cuppa?” Rachel enquired.

Sonam nodded vigorously. “That would go down a treat. It's been a long drive.”

While Rachel went to brew the tea, Sonam took off his coat, hanging on one of the hallway pegs and went to talk to George and Ruth who were sitting there eagerly awaiting him. This really was a wonderful surprise.

“I take it, then, that Mildred has told you the whole story?” Ruth said, to give the man a lead in.

Sonam nodded. “Yes, she told me as much as she could remember and she asked for my advice. And that's why I'm here. I thought that I should meet you both myself and get to know you a little better before making up my mind. This is a serious business, you understand?”

George cast his eyes down.

Sonam laughed and slapped his thigh, making George jump.

“When I said serious, I didn't mean to infer that you'd done something wrong and that I was in any way vexed with you.”

That was a relief.

At this point, Rachel returned with three cups of tea, so they fell silent for a time until she'd left.

“So, let's pretend that I haven't heard your story and tell it all over again,” Sonam began. Then he had a thought. “Of course, it's getting on for lunchtime and I noticed that the sign in the window read 'Bed, breakfast and evening meal'. I presume you haven't eaten lunch yet?”

“No, actually we were just coming downstairs on the way to the local bakery to pick something up when you arrived.”

“Right you are. Well, once we've had our tea, let me drive you to the village. I saw a lovely little café there and you can get something a little more substantial. I don't know about you, but with the long drive up from Sher Point, I am absolutely famished and my stomach is rumbling.

“By the way, I'm sorry that we didn't get in touch earlier. I decided that by the time a letter arrived, let alone an exchange of letters, that I could be here to see you first-hand. As I say, I'm sorry if you've been left here fretting, and perhaps thinking that you'd been let down.”

“We're very glad you're here, Sonam,” Ruth smiled appreciatively. “That's all that matters really. Though, yes, I must admit that we had begun to fret.”

Sonam laughed. “That's my line, too Ruth, when people come to me and apologize for having taken so long to find me. And I reply that the only important thing is that they have made it to my door. I can see that you'll go far, young lady.”

The man surveyed the empty cups. “Right then, hang on while I return this tray to your dear landlady and I'll be with you in a moment. And if you haven't driven in a car before, young George, then you are in for a treat.”

George had not and that was a fact.

Whilst they sat in the café and ate, they made light chit-chat, but Ruth got the feeling that even then, Sonam was taking in every word and every nuance and slowly building up a picture in his mind, and some of his remarks were astute.

When they'd finished their meal, however, they got down to serious business and Sonam would throw in questions every now and then to keep them on their toes. They could only tell the truth and hope that that truth was enough to convince Sonam that they needed his help; there was no way in the world that he would have been taken in by flowery words or bullshit, let alone outright lies.

As they strolled through the fragrant gardens back to Sonam's car, after another cup of coffee so that the lady serving them wouldn't think they were sitting around and hogging the table, Ruth finished off the story of their lives, and she looked at Sonam expectantly.

At length, Sonam spoke and there was a great sadness in his eyes. “Friends, what I have to say to you, after your gripping story is going to feel something of an anticlimax.”

The man paused while his words sank in.

“And you're going to feel rather disappointed, to say the least.”

As he said those words, it wasn't a sinking feeling that Ruth felt, but something hitting rock bottom with a dull and sickening thud.

“You would never get across the border through the Wye valley. The land is so open around the border check point, they search the vehicles, and they have dogs.”

“The moors are vast and deceptive, and at this time of year you might die of exposure or lack of water before you reached the far end. Believe me, I've walked such moorland before and it's hard going even when well prepared, well equipped and keeping to well beaten tracks.”

“Going home is not an option, I can see that. It would be a huge defeat and it would also place you in grave danger.”

“And if you stay here much longer, you're going to start getting on top of one-another and eventually simply run out of energy and money for lack of nurture and opportunity.”

“So I think that the only sensible thing for you would be to leave here and head for Hornsby. It's only about an hour's drive away to the west, and I can give you a lift that far. You're a lot more likely to find what you're looking for there.”

Ruth could hardly believe her ears. Sonam had driven all this way to tell them that? And it wasn't even as if he'd let them down gently; he'd yanked the rug out from beneath their feet. It was only later that she considered that in saying this, he had perhaps saved their lives.

“Hornsby it is, then,” gulped Ruth, a lump rising up in her throat and hardly able to contain the tears that were pressing up against her eyeballs, ready to gush down her face.

“Good, that's the spirit. Then let's head back to the car. How soon can you be ready?”

Ruth waved her arms in the air and looked to George who had a stunned and vacant look in his eyes. “In about five minutes. We hadn't even bothered unpacking the few things we brought with us.”

It was quite a sunny day that day and the countryside was pleasant enough, but as they waved goodbye to Rachel Longhorn and set off, an ominous dark cloud followed them all the way and the air was tense and electric. George was silent throughout and she really had to force herself to make even polite conversation. Disappointment have given way to feelings of deep, gnawing frustration, grief and even pent up aggression.

They wound their way through the bustling market town for some way, sometimes crawling along to gently nudge their way through the crowds, and then Sonam pulled the car into the side of the road. “Well, this is it chaps,” Sonam said at length. He got out of the car on his side and went round to the back to let Ruth out and to open the boot to retrieve their bags.

George still appeared quite surly, but biting her lip, Ruth took her bag, shook the man's hand and thanked him for his time and for his help, and asked him to pass on their best wishes to Mildred, before abruptly turning away, for fear that she might burst into tears and embarrass herself in public. She and George had been dealt such a crushing blow that day. People did say that what doesn't destroy you makes you stronger, but that no doubt noble and lofty sentiment didn't carry much weight just then.

“Oh, one moment ...” the man called out and she momentarily turned back to see what was amiss.

Sonam suddenly had a thought and fished about in his pockets. He produced what looked like a shopping list. “Oh heavens, I'd completely forgotten. Look, there's something I really must pick up from the shops before I leave. I know it's a lot to ask under the circumstances, and you have every right in the world to be vexed with me, but would you mind watching the car for a minute?”

He fished his keys out of his pocket and tossed them in Ruth's direction. “Here, you might as well wait in the car while I'm away.”

Without waiting for a reply, the man was off, so what could they do but hang around like shop dummies until he returned?

Ruth opened the back door of the car and they clambered back inside. Well, at least they could snuggle up together for a few minutes and console one-another before going back out into that grim world.

Five minutes passed, and then another five minutes and Ruth had begun to doze off. Then she heard the rapping of knuckles on the car window and, not knowing what it was or, for a moment, even where she was, she nearly jumped out of her skin. She quickly clambered out of the car and stood there in a daze, not quite sure what to believe any more.

“Well, fancy meeting you here,” called out a familiar voice. It was Mildred Drew and she was with Sonam and two other men.

“But what are you doing here?” George wanted to know, belatedly emerging from the car.

“I decided that I'd had enough of living alone in Hodweir, so these fine gentlemen have been helping me move.” She pointed to a large, bright yellow furniture van across the far side of the car park.

“This is all rather sudden and unexpected. So where are you moving to?” George enquired. He hadn't twigged yet, but Ruth was ahead of him.

“To Sonam's study centre, Foxholes, on the outskirts of Sher Point. And once I'd decided that, it all clicked into place, you see,” the lady told them.

Again she nodded toward the van. “Even though I have a lot of furniture, you'll find that there's still room for a little more, at the back. Room enough for two little things, in fact.”

Ruth felt her jaw drop and she suddenly felt as if a huge weight had been removed from her shoulders, even before she'd consciously registered what Mildred was suggesting. She hadn't realized, until that monumental moment, just how tense and pent-up she had become; and George, too. And then it hit her and she swung round on Sonam, who could hardly keep himself from laughing out loud.

“Oh, but that's so cruel. You led us to believe that this was the best you could offer us, to give us a lift into Hornsby.”

Sonam smiled. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but I said that you were more likely to find what you were looking for here.”

“All the same. And all along, you and Mildred had cooked up a scheme to smuggle us into the Freelands along with her furniture, killing two birds with the same stone, as it were.”

Sonam didn't make any apology. “Consider what you have learnt in the process, however,” he suggested, “and how relieved you are now, compared to how you felt an hour ago, or just before I arrived. Another week in Upper Wyevale and you would have been at one-another's throats. Two weeks more and, believe me, you would have gone your separate ways. I had no option but to intervene and no say in the means by which that intervention was to be achieved.”

Quite without warning, Ruth was hit by a wave of emotion and the tears began streaming down her face. She reached out and clutched the man, showering him with thanks and tears. Then she pulled herself away and turned to George, to give him a big hug. She'd expected him to be as over the moon as her, and yet he seemed to still be in a daze, and strangely distant. She didn't know it at the time, but this powerful event had suddenly jolted George to his senses, and triggered something buried deep inside him, and that the enormity of this thing had quite stunned him.

George was mumbling something under his breath and she strained to hear. “What did you say, George?” she asked him.

“That I shouldn't be here,” he replied.

That shocked and deeply worried her. “You don't want to be here with me, is that it?” Boy, that punch hit her right in the gut. “George, you are beginning to freak me out.”

The lad seemed to dig deep and pull himself together at that moment, perhaps realizing the implications of what he was saying.

“No, no, please don't get me wrong, Ruth. I don't at all mean that I shouldn't be here with you. It's just that somewhere, deep down inside, someone keeps repeating, over and over and over, those words: I shouldn't be here. And I don't quite know what that means.”

She took George's arm as they crossed the car park toward the waiting van. “You and me both, George. You and me both.”

George clutched tight hold of her hand, perhaps to reassure her. “Not wanting to be here with you. That's really is the last thing on my mind,” the lad added with some haste.

This incident could not have escaped Sonam's attention, she noted, yet he said nothing and made no attempt to intervene. And for a fleeting moment, the unthinkable crossed Ruth's mind, before she forcibly dismissed it: that perhaps Sonam's intervention had come a fraction too late for her and George. Not as individuals – the world was their oyster – but for her and George as a romantic “item”.

Perish the thought, shuddered Ruth. She mentally pinched herself and snapped out of her dark and brooding reverie.

14. Suspicions are raised

Sonam decided to take Mildred back himself and drive on ahead, since it would be a lot more comfortable for her in his car with the heater on than wedged between the driver and his mate in the removals van, but something kept bugging him as they neared the border and he pulled over and flagged the van down.

“I'm not happy about this,” he told them. “Mildred, I know it's a pain, but I think that it would appear more convincing if you were in the cab with our friends here, at least until we're clear of the border. Here Mildred, take firm hold of that hand grip and I'll help push you aboard.”

“Now, something's also telling me that I shouldn't drive on ahead of you, and I've learnt through experience that I should trust these intuitions, so you drive off and I'll follow on behind.”

All too soon they pulled up, just this side of the border, outside the border post. Sonam arrived a couple of minutes later and he could immediately sense that something was not right. Two of the guards had gone round to the back of the van and had opened the doors to shine their torches inside. They appeared to be on the brink of closing the van doors again, but there was a third guard with them now, an officer by the look of it, and though Sonam couldn't hear him, he could tell by the man's gesticulating that this officer wanted the others to empty the contents of the van.

Now they were in deep, deep trouble.

Sonam got out of his car and sauntered across to the guards as they began to empty the furniture van piece by piece. Again, he simply had no other option and he had to go where his feet told him to go.

“What appears to be the problem here, officer?” he asked the man nearest to him, the one wearing the peaked hat and with the shiny buttons on his epaulettes.

The man pulled himself up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “Nothing to be alarmed about, sir. We are searching this ve-hicle in order to hensure that there is no contraband nor hillicit substances hidden in the cargo.”

“It's getting late and they look harmless enough to me,” Sonam shrugged. “It's just a few sticks of furniture.”

“And what business is this of yours, sir? Please go back to your ve-hicle and await your turn. You will be dealt with shortly.”

Please help me out here, Sonam prayed. This isn't working. He could feel a lot of resistance.

“Oh, we don't want to do that,” Sonam replied in slow, measured tones.

“I shan't tell you again, sir.”

“Oh, we don't want to do that,” Sonam repeated, again in deliberately slow, measured tones.

It was make or break time.

“We don't want to do that,” the man mouthed almost inaudibly. Sonam had been getting deeply worried by then.

“It's far too much trouble. Now the man behind, with the flash new motor ve-hicle. He looks a shifty chap,” whispered Sonam, nodding his head slowly up and down.

“He looks a shifty chap,” the man nodded in turn.

“I think we'll take his car apart.”

“I think we'll take his car apart,” the man echoed distantly.

Sonam snapped his fingers and the officer awoke with a start, not realizing that he'd been slowly drifting off.

“Are you alright?” Sonam asked, a look of feigned concern etched across his face.

The officer in the peaked cap pulled himself away and went over to his men. “I don't think we want to do that,” he repeated, almost verbatim. “It's far too much trouble. Now the man behind, with the flash new motor ve-hicle. He looks a shifty chap. I think we'll take his car apart.”

Sonam breathed a sigh of relief and cast his eyes to the heavens. “Thank you, Friend,” he whispered. Then he walked slowly back to his car whilst the border guards returned the furniture to the back of the van, closed the back doors, waved the driver on his way, and inevitably turned their attentions to him.

He could have claimed diplomatic immunity, of course, but then it would have taken the guards even longer to get through to their boss, and their boss to his boss, until finally someone checked his credentials and accepted the immunity. Sonam would rather save that claim, and the ensuing hassle, for times of real emergency. Today, he had nothing whatsoever to hide, and with Ruth and George safely across the border, he was in no particular rush to go anywhere fast.

The guards looked and looked and looked that afternoon, and they didn't find a thing. Sonam almost felt sorry for them and he tried to help, pointing out several places that they might look, all to no avail, but it was fun seeing them scrabbling in the dirt, poking about under the car.

Sonam had to smile, really. He was reminded of an old joke.

Every evening at the end of his shift at the factory, a man would push a wheelbarrow full of straw up to the guard who stood at the gate.

The guard would look through the straw and, finding nothing, he would let the man pass.

This went on for thirty years and by this time the man and the guard had become firm friends. And then one evening, on the day of his retirement, the man walked up to the guard without his wheelbarrow.

And the guard said: “Look Charlie, you and I are good buddies. I know that you've been stealing, and you have to tell me one thing before you go, because it's been driving me crazy.”

“Sure,” nodded Charlie.

“What were you stealing?” the guard wanted to know.

“Wheelbarrows,” Charlie replied as he walked out through the factory gates.

And there was another story, too, about the wise fool who discovered that his house was being burgled, late one night. As he watched, he began to feel sorry for the burglar, since there was nothing in his house worth stealing, and offered the burglar the blanket he'd wrapped himself in, so that the man would not go away empty handed.

It's not that Sonam wanted to break the law. Ninety nine percent of the time, he was more than happy to be an exemplary human citizen working within the law, and by that he meant both the secular and the religious law with a lower case el; but the Design didn't operate in isolation, in a vacuum as it were, and sometimes there were conflicts that couldn't be resolved through normal means, and at such times extraordinary methods were called for, so that the Higher Laws might prevail … even if this came at great personal cost or sacrifice.

Sonam was detained a good half hour by the guards, but his car was a good deal faster than the old van, especially when fully laden, so it wasn't long before he caught them as they crawled up one of the long, steep hills south of the border. He overtook them and waited patently for them to take the crest of the hill, as judging by all the huffing and puffing that the old van was making, had he stopped them on the hill, they wouldn't have been able to start the old jalopy up again.

15. A home away from home

Much as it grieved him, Sonam didn't stop to let Ruth and George out of the van until they were well clear of the border towns. There were always people trying to sneak across and the police in these towns were as vigilant as the border guards, even in these early days; and Sonam suspected that as time went by, things would only get worse in that regard.

When they did finally emerge, the two youngsters were quite cold to the point of shivering and with being confined in a small space at the end of a makeshift tunnel, at the back of the van, their limbs were stiff, so they took a little time out from the journey to let the youngsters answer the urgent call of nature and stretch their legs, whilst the delivery van drove on.

By the time they arrived at Foxholes, they were all quite exhausted, though not from boredom, lack of food or physical exertion, but rather nervous exhaustion at having to remain alert and vigilant throughout the journey, until they finally pulled into the grounds of the house and could at long last breathe a hearty sigh of relief and relax.

“Welcome to your new home,” Sonam beamed as he helped with the luggage and ushered them into the grand and stately entrance hall.

“Oh my, when you said that Foxholes was large, I didn't realize that you meant a palace,” George enthused, casting his eyes around and up to the huge glass dome set into the high ceiling of the entrance hall. That must be a delight to see during the day, with the sun streaming through it and illuminating the rosewood-lined walls and marble floor.

Ruth, too, was impressed, though what made her happy most of all, other than the fact that she and George had finally made it to the Freelands, was that George had emerged once more from his cocoon and was back with them in the land of the living. She gave George a hug and he dropped his bag, picked her up in his arms and swung her around in joy, and it didn't escape her attention that there were tears in George's eyes, too, that day.

“Sorry,” George apologized, seeing Sonam patiently waiting there in the hallway whilst they were otherwise engaged.

Sonam smiled and shook his head. “Not at all, it's a delight to see, George. And you don't need to keep saying 'sorry' all the time.”

“Yes, I keep telling George that self same thing,” she nodded.

Sonam cast his arms around. “I'm happy that the hallway has been more or less completed whilst we've been away; however, as you can see, we're still in the throes of decorating and unpacking, and we have not as yet got round to organizing any formal studies. Nevertheless, now that you are here, I shall endeavour to sort a few things out for you and generally help make your stay here an enjoyable and fruitful one.”

“First things first, however: let's head off to the kitchens to brew some tea – or coffee if you'd prefer? – and then we'll sort you out a couple of rooms; and when you've freshened up and changed, we'll see about some food. I don't know about you, but I'm feeling rather peckish.”

As they wandered through the sprawling house on the way to the kitchens, Ruth could see that there was a lot of work to do before they could officially open the place as a study centre, as Sonam had indicated earlier, and she said as much. “I think that we could earn our keep and learn a lot by simply helping out with these preparations, if that's alright with you, Sonam,” she offered.

Sonam smiled. “Why, thank you for your kind offer, Ruth. I shall bear that in mind, though I promise not to work you off your feet. You're not here to slave away for us, however noble the cause. And you're quite right about learning through work. That has always been a part of our tradition, and we do find that people learn more through involvement in quite mundane and everyday activities than they do from sitting in a formal classroom setting whilst listening to teacher as he scribbles on a blackboard. This project is all quite new, of course, but the Tradition behind it stretches back to time immemorial. Though the details have changed to suit time, place, people and circumstances, there are certain fundamental patterns behind that that are as true today as they were a thousand years ago.

“As a tradition, we got through the experimental stage long ago. The things that did not work, we discarded; and the things that did, we built upon. So, many of our methods have been thoroughly tried and tested. Therefore, I trust, we will not disappoint you.

“Our philosophy is nothing, if not practical,” Sonam told them, and he recounted a joke from their tradition:

Little Charlie was in class one day learning arithmetic, and the teacher addressed them.

“If there are nine sheep in a field and one of them wanders off and escapes through a hole in the fence, how many are left in the field?”

Charlie immediately thrust his hand in the air.

“Yes, Charlie.”

“None, sir.”

“None?” the teacher called back. “None? Charlie, you clearly do not know your arithmetic. The answer is eight.”

Charlie shook his head adamantly. “And you clearly don't know your sheep, Teacher. When one goes, they all go.”

A philosophy that was nothing, if not practical: Ruth was rather tickled by that, and the accompanying story fit like a glove.

Sonam paused for a second as they came to the kitchen door. “Well, perhaps I should qualify that remark? We may well disappoint you from time to time. But rest assured that if we do, it will not be without good reason, in order to facilitate something far more real and worthwhile.”

As they sat there, sipping their tea and idly dunking biscuits, Sonam spoke again, this time directing his attention toward George.

“Here's a story for you to ponder, George. Don't ask me why, since as yet I am as much in the dark as you are. However, I'm reliably informed that this story is indicated at this particular time:”

Once upon a time, not so very long ago nor a million miles away, a man was convicted of a crime which he did not commit, and he was sentenced to life imprisonment.

The man languished in his dank cell for several years, but he did behave in an exemplary fashion, and in time his gaolers began to see, and even respect him, as a model prisoner. Because of this, though the man was not allowed visitors, he was able to make his cell a little more comfortable, and his wife sent him an exquisite and intricately woven prayer mat. Here was the genuine article, not some cheap, mass produced imitation.

And then one day the man begged a favour of his captors. He said: “I have a proposition to make which might help us all. I am by trade a metal worker, and you are so poorly paid. If you can obtain for me a few tools and small scraps of tin, then I will be able to make beautiful artefacts which you can sell on my behalf. We can then split the proceeds, to our mutual advantage.”

The guards readily agreed to this and the man crafted many delightful miniature figures that they were able to sell in the local market for a high price, and they all greatly benefited from this.

And then one morning, when the guards came to bring the man his breakfast, they were astounded to find the cell empty, and the man gone. They couldn't understand how such a thing could have happened, and concluded that the man must have been a magician.

Many years later when the error of his conviction had been discovered, the man was pardoned and brought before the king.

“Tell me one thing, which has baffled even the wisest people in the land all these years,” the king requested. “How did you escape from the gaol?”

The tinsmith explained: “Real escape is possible only with the correct concurrence of factors. My wife found the locksmith who had made the lock on my cell, and other locks throughout the prison. She embroidered the interior designs of the locks in the rug which she sent me, on the spot where the head is prostrated in prayer. She relied upon me to register this design and to realize that it was the wards of the locks. It was necessary for me to get materials with which to make the keys, and to be able to hammer and work metal in my cell. I had to enlist the greed and need of the guards, so that there would be no suspicion. That is the story of my escape.”[14]

They all went so quiet at that moment, that you could almost hear George's jaw drop, promptly followed by her own.

Sonam abruptly rose to his feet and began to collect their empty cups. “Right then, let's get you sorted and then we'll have to see about something more substantial to eat. I'm reliably informed that it's Cook's day off, and since we don't as yet have a work rota organized, we'll have to cater for ourselves and for anybody else who's here today.”

“While you get yourselves ready, I'll see if Mildred has arrived yet; get someone to help with unloading the van, and make sure that everyone is being well looked after.”

Just then, a young lady popped her head round the cafeteria door.

“Ah good, your timing is impeccable, Choden,” Sonam smiled. “Either that or you smelt the tea brewing. Choden, meet Ruth and George, two new arrivals; Ruth and George, meet Choden, one of the senior students whom I brought with me from Narayana.”

Like Sonam, the lady had jet black hair and sun-tanned skin, though whilst he had grown pleasantly plump, she was slim and looked rather fit, like an athlete or a dancer, and was perhaps in her mid-twenties, though it was hard to judge accurately. Sonam smiled and they all shook hands and exchanged words of greeting.

“I wonder if you wouldn't mind sorting out our friends whilst I see if I can find Tenzing to help with some furniture when Mildred arrives back here? She's here already? Right, well in that case, I'd best be off. I'll see you presently.

“Oh and if you need a soak, there are three bathrooms upstairs with oceans of hot water, so don't be afraid to run yourselves a bath. This old house has a boiler room big enough to sink a battleship.”

Sonam stopped in his tracks and peered at his pocket watch. “Four o'clock already. While we're about it, let's round everyone up for dinner at six and then I think perhaps we should adjourn to the inn up the hill and draw up a battle plan. I can see now that we need to get ourselves thoroughly organized, and to do that we'll need to appoint people to manage various tasks.”

“And I can see that we've arrived at an awkward moment and thrown a spanner in the works ….” George began as they followed Sonam out of the cafeteria.

“Not at all,” the man called back as he began to trot off down the corridor. “Your timing was perfect. A catalyst is exactly what we need right now. Couldn't have worked out better if we'd tried.”

Ruth smiled. That was so very often the case, though she'd never been able to convince her parents to ease off a bit. Everything in Father's life – be it childbirth or family outings – had been planned with military precision, and fun and frivolity had been deeply frowned upon.

As for George, bless him, he was simply mesmerised by his new surroundings, like a little kid, though fortunately he was not overawed or cowed.

16. A meeting is convened

Well, they all worked together and managed to prepare dinner that day without any major hiccups, but had it not been for Cook, they would have been well and truly up the creek. Sonam had been on the phone rounding up the others for their evening meeting at the inn and, bless her, Cook had come in early, even though it was her day off.

Without her, there's no way that the food would have arrived on their plates at the right time, or even the same time, and not in a lumpy or mushy heap. To do this required a certain magical touch which she had and, alas, as yet they did not. This was, said Sonam, something that he aimed to rectify.

Cook was on a temporary, part time contract at the time, but there was no question in Sonam's mind that they should offer her a permanent, full time position.

After they'd adjourned to the inn at the top of the hill and Sonam had introduced the meeting, they spent some time enumerating the jobs that they'd have to complete before they could officially open their doors, then skated over what responsibilities would have to be undertaken when they were up and running, and finally they turned to electing any staff or responsible people they'd be needing at the outset.

The position of cook was his first tentative proposal, then. He was hoping that the lady wouldn't take offence, because if Cook was unwilling or unable to meet their changing requirements, then they might have to replace her, or appoint someone full-time over her. Sonam knew full well, however, that this was just the sort of decision that came with the territory. He would thoroughly consult with the others beforehand, but it was he who would have to come to the final decision. This wasn't a fully democratic process, of course, but it was the nearest they could arrive at and still ensure that things went smoothly and according to the Design which he, as Director, represented and made manifest.

Sonam told them that they'd be needing a full time cook who could also take charge of and mentor others. This would form a valuable part of the education process at the study centre. They'd be organizing a work rota, so the cook would have plenty of assistance.

He turned to Cook and told her that they were more than satisfied with her work and that she would be at the very top of a list of one, if she would like to take on the task.

There was a brief pause, and then, thanking Sonam for his kind offer, she gratefully accepted. Yes, she would very much like to play a full-time rôle in the new study centre and wished them all every success.

So that was a wonderful start to the meeting, really setting the tone for what would follow.

Sonam paused for a time while he went round topping up everyone's glasses with mead, then he turned to Lhamu and Dawa, Tenzing's mother and father. “It goes without saying that your work with the Network should continue as before and we really must sort you out a room to use as an office. There are three rooms down the narrow corridor not far from the entrance hall, leading to what will eventually be my study; and there's another narrow corridor a little further along. I think perhaps we should reserve the nearest room to serve as a general office for the college; but with that proviso, please feel free to pick a room, to move in and request whatever equipment or assistance you need. You'll no doubt be needing your own phone, and though I'm not au fait with such technicalities, I gather that this will in turn require the installation of a switchboard – located in the general office I would suggest – so we'll also look into that possibility.”

Next, he turned to Mildred to see what she had to say. He could see her leaning forward, as if eager to be let off the leash. “Dear Mildred,” he began, hoping that he wouldn't be placing her in an awkward position. “I realize that you are eager to play an active rôle in the community. What are your thoughts on that?”

Mildred scanned the table for a few moments. “Well, let me say from the outset that I'm anxious not to tread on anyone's toes here ….”

Sonam smiled and nodded. There was, indeed, a slight tension in the group, and that might explain it, in part. “Go on.”

“It's just that I couldn't help noticing the disarray in your study; in what you indicate will be the general office, and also in what I presume you have earmarked as a library. Now, as you can see, I'm not in a position these days to be lugging furniture around or building shelves, but I do still possess a disciplined and organized mind and I did think that I might begin to bring some order into those areas and perhaps make a start on organizing and cataloguing the books. That sort of thing. And if at some time in the future you employ a librarian or other office staff, then I'll happily stand aside.”

“Thank you for your generous offer, Mildred.” Sonam scanned the group and saw an array of nodding heads. “Well, it looks like we're all in agreement, so – yes – please feel free to go ahead, and if you need any help, please feel free to ask at any time. You are not to go straining yourself unnecessarily.”

“And don't go setting your sights too low, Mildred,” Sonam added. “There's so much that you could teach our students when they eventually arrive, and I have you in mind for a part-time teaching post, should you be willing. Something challenging at times, no doubt, and I know that you've always thrived on a good challenge; but nothing too taxing or exhausting.”

Mildred bowed her head, but said nothing.

Sonam thought for a moment. “I think perhaps we should also draft in someone else to help Mildred in the general office, in her charge. A secretarial cum clerical position: answering the phone, typing out letters and ordering supplies, that sort of thing, if we have any takers?”

He looked around.

Ruth caught his eye. “Yes, Ruth. Did I see you nodding your head?” he smiled. Again, she too was scanning the faces around the table to make sure that she wasn't poaching a job that another had set their heart upon.

“Please friends, don't be unnecessarily coy and self-effacing. We're all mature people here and we can handle the challenge.”

“I'm also eager to help earn my keep here,” she spoke at length. “I realize that when the study centre opens, you'll most likely want to involve me in those studies, but until that time I'd be more than happy to work in the general office and get some 'work experience' – I'm sure that Mildred could teach me a lot. Then later, I can either stand down or change to part time work. If that's okay with everybody else here, that is ….”

Sonam checked the others' reactions. Again, they all looked to be in agreement.

“Well, it looks like you've talked yourself into a job, Ruth, and you are duly appointed. Thank you indeed.”

“Now, who does that leave?”

Choden quietly raised her hand and turned in his direction. “I think you'll be needing to appoint someone like a 'matron' to run many of the household chores and look after the students when they arrive, Master Sonam. I thought perhaps I might fill in until you can appoint someone on a full-time basis?”

“Yes, that's a good point, Choden. I shall add that post to the growing list. Yes, fill in for now by all means. However ….”

Choden did not appear to be at all phased by the way her teacher abruptly added that qualification.

“... However, you've been with me for several years now and I did think that perhaps it might be time for you to branch out. So with that in mind, I thought that at some stage you might help me draft a curriculum. In so doing, we'll have a better idea of what teaching staff we're going to need. And we can draw up some lesson plans of our own, so that we have that ready by the time we are due to open our doors ….”

Choden bowed her head. “Thank you, Master Sonam. I would be greatly honoured to help in whatever way I can.”

“Tenzing, young man.”

Tenzing looked up sharply, momentarily caught off guard.

“Yes, Master Sonam?”

“I thought perhaps you might spend some of your time shadowing me as I go about my work, and also helping out with whatever general tasks there are, as and when the need arises.”

“Thank you,” the lad said, bowing his head toward the Master.

“And in the spring, when the weather begins to get warmer and the days begin to lengthen, you might also look into the possibility of turning over some of the earth in a corner of the grounds and planting some vegetables, perhaps a herb garden close to the kitchens, in consultation with Cook and with Choden who knows a thing or two about medicinal herbs. I think that from the outset we should attempt to become as self-sufficient as we are able, or in a position to be able to barter whatever we can produce for things we need but cannot produce.”

“Heavens: beehives, hen houses, rose gardens, arts and crafts, publications, a brewery … there are a thousand and one possibilities for our growing community, each one full of potential learning experiences, so let's not set our sights too narrowly, nor too low.”

A brewery? Ruth queried, not sure whether Sonam was pulling her leg.

“There is a wonderful plant, my dear, which I have brought all the way from the mountains of Narayana. We call it chungari, and it means Herb of Enlightenment. It has medicinal uses and it may also be used as one of the major ingredients to make the most delicious wine. We use it for ceremonial and developmental purposes. So no, I am not pulling your leg.”

Ruth stared at the man, then broke eye contact and cast her eyes down. Had she said that? No, she had not. And yet Sonam seemed to have plucked those words from her mind.

“Did you say publications?” queried Tenzing. Ruth had seen the lad's eyes light up, and perhaps he might have said something earlier, had she not butted in.

He was sitting quite close to Sonam and the Master reached across the table and gently patted the back of his hand. “This is one of those occasions when you can have the right idea at the wrong time, young Tenzing. Give it another ten years and then you may find yourself ready and in a position to commit your ideas to print.”

“Ten years,” Tenzing echoed with a sigh.

“Ten or twenty,” Sonam nodded quite solemnly.

“Heck, ten years seems an age away, but twenty? That's even worse. And I do know that you are not pulling my leg on this occasion, Master Sonam.”

“You might not think it at this moment, Tenzing,” Sonam replied, with a twinkle in his eye, “but fortune has blessed you. You remember the hidden garden that I showed you the other day?”

“Hearing you playing your flute in that garden is something that will stay with me for ever and a day,” Tenzing nodded.

“Well, in the years ahead when I am no longer here, Tenzing, you will sit in that hidden garden and fondly remember these times and you will no longer feel disappointed but, rather, you will be truly fulfilled. I can promise you that now.”

Tenzing seemed to see something in that moment and you could see him filling up.

“Thank you, Master Sonam,” the lad replied, taking out his handkerchief to dab away the tears, before falling silent once more.

Sonam was going through the growing list that he'd made and ticking off the entries as they filled the vacancies. Turning to the other students he'd brought with him from Narayana, he looked from one face to another and seemed to be weighing up something in his mind. By this time, George was beginning to think that by the time they got round to him, there'd be nothing more than the most menial jobs left for him to do.

“Which brings us to you, Mingma and Nawang; Josh and Tashi. We've been neglecting your studies these last few weeks and I do want to get that back on course. Choden, perhaps we might see what we can do to rectify that situation and perhaps you might organize a developmental group? Let's say on a Wednesday afternoon. And for my part, I'll pull my finger out and reinstate the circle to meet each Thursday evening, under my guidance, before we forget the important business that brings us here in the first place and the tail starts wagging the dog. Other than that, please feel free to muck in with any work that needs doing.”

“Mildred, perhaps you might review the list of tasks we've arrived at and, being of a suitably disciplined disposition, organize a rota? And please don't forget to add my name to that rota. Now, things may crop up from time to time and I wouldn't want to mess people about through having to swap shifts and rearrange work schedules, so let's say that I will be available any time between getting up at first light until nine in the morning; and again any time after four in the afternoon. And if I do have any prior or more pressing engagements, then I promise to let you know and to make up for any time lost.”

Sonam looked at his pocket watch. “Well, friends the evening is drawing in, so I think it's time we made our way down the hill and brewed a pot of tea before bed.” He rose to his feet and, after handing in their glasses at the bar and thanking the landlady, they headed for the door.

George was rather disappointed that his name had not been mentioned once throughout these proceedings and he was feeling rather out of it, though of course he didn't voice this dismay.

He was sitting there in the cafeteria, listening as Ruth and Mildred engaged in conversation – they having even more to talk about now – when he felt a hand clap him on the shoulder and he nearly jumped out of his skin. It was Sonam. “Fear not, I haven't forgotten you, young George.”

In an instant, his hopes rose from the depths, where they'd been languishing.

Sonam drew up a chair to sit alongside him for a moment. “I'm sure that we can find something suitable for you to do, given time. You see, and please don't take offence – for none is intended – but I can't quite fathom you. You might say that you are as yet an unknown quantity or 'dark horse', as they say.”

George laughed nervously. “Yes, I'm often left wondering the same thing myself, actually.”

“To that end, I thought perhaps we should meet together on a regular basis. Let's say for an hour each day, after breakfast. And in that way, I hope that we'll get to know one-another rather better.”

The man took out a pencil and scribbled something in his notepad. “Don't worry, it's just a note to myself, to remind me to ask Mildred to schedule the work rota with this in mind.”

Sonam said this in a very gentle and friendly manner, of course, and yet George did feel a little uncomfortable, thinking perhaps that Sonam had concerns about him and that this was why he was being singled out in this way. And George was worried that he might not make the grade. He'd always been an underachiever and that had, alas, become the story of his life. The realization struck him then – and quite forcibly – that folk like Mildred and Ruth were streets ahead of him in developmental terms, and that really was a humbling thought. Perhaps, after all, he had made a huge mistake and should have stayed in the Outlands where he rightly belonged?

Sonam must have sensed his disquiet. “Please don't be alarmed, George. You may have to trust me on this matter, but I'm sure that this will all work out for the best, given time.”

Given time? In a way that innocuous phrase merely confirmed his prior suspicions.

The man looked at George and thoughtfully stroked his chin. “George, I'll be frank with you. In my expert opinion you are suffering from a chronic case of botulinum cogitarius.”

George was alarmed. “Heavens, what's that when it's at home?”

Sonam smiled. “Simply put, that you worry too much. And it's nothing that we can't handle, I hasten to add.”

“Thank you, Sonam,” he replied, forcing a smile.

“There we are then. Anyhow, time for bed. There is some merit in the old folk rhyme: Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.”

Chance would be a fine thing, George sighed to himself. Even if he did go to bed early, fear of nightmares kept him awake for hours and then when the nightmares did strike, he'd wake with a start and the cycle would sometimes be repeated all over again. He found this deeply disturbing, and if he was to talk with Sonam, then he'd have to broach this subject with the man.

“First things first, however. I'll have a word with Mildred and we'll both help her straighten out what is to be my study, so that we have somewhere cosy and private in which to meet. And I think we'll also 'buddy you up' with Tenzing and see what rubs off on you. I have high hopes for that young man, though please don't let on that I told you so. I'll be candid with you. There's a certain dynamic tension between us, which is pulling him forward, and I wouldn't want this to go to his head and disrupt the sensitive equilibrium.”

“Right you are. Mum's the word.”

“And right we will be, young man,” Sonam smiled, rising from his seat and patting George on the shoulder.

17. The first encounter

It took them the best part of a week before they finally got Sonam's study sorted out, as they kept getting called away to help with all manner of other tasks. Even with all hands on deck, there was so much work to be done.

And there was something else, too. George couldn't help but think that there was some guiding hand and intent behind this apparent chaos, as if he were being secretly loosened up ahead of his private meetings with Sonam. By the time they were due to meet, he was feeling quite disorientated and shaken up under this influence.

“So, tell me about yourself,” Sonam began after they'd exchanged formal greetings and were sitting comfortably in the Master's newly refashioned study. George was on a small sofa, whilst Sonam sat in an armchair close by, at an angle, rather than directly opposite him as you might in a formal interview. It felt more relaxing that way.

“I'm sorry, Sonam. I should have seen that coming and prepared. I honestly don't know where to begin,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders apologetically.

“Do you usually feel a need to be well prepared?” the Master enquired.

George thought for a moment. “Well, I worry about not being prepared.”

“And why's that?”

“Well, I might come across in the wrong way, or say the wrong things, and people might form a poor opinion of me.”

Sonam nodded. “Yes, that can hurt.”

Then he recalled something. “I have a lot of bad dreams and in one of those dreams, I find myself in a room with a bunch of other classmates and discover, to my horror, that in just a few minutes we're to enter a hall and face a written examination. It's like a moment of truth, if you like.”

Sonam smiled and again nodded when he heard those words, but passed no comment.

“So I feverishly flick through my text books to do some last minute cramming, acutely aware of the fact that I've skipped lessons and haven't revised for the exam and that I don't know the first thing about the subject. It's a sickening feeling, knowing that you're going to make a pig's ear of it.”

“And that the truth would be unearthed?” Sonam asked, though it sounded more like a statement than a question.

“Yes, I guess so. I mean it would blow my fantasies out of the window.”

“And is this simply a worry that's confined to bad dreams, George, or does it represent a tarnished thread that's been running through your life?”

George sighed. “I don't quite know how it came about, Sonam, but I didn't go back to school after I finished in the juniors and I've always been an underachiever. Nothing was ever planned or prepared, I didn't even realize that you had to. I was half asleep at the time and simply muddled through from lesson to lesson and day to day, and of course my family lived from hand to mouth. It's only now, after the event, that I'm coming to realize this and I can't help but look back and cringe and feel remorse for not having tried harder and done better; especially when I measure myself up against the likes of Ruth, say, or Mildred.”

Mildred continued to astound. If Sonam asked her where something was, she'd be able to close her eyes, think a little and reply, “Second drawer along, third drawer down, two thirds of the way back” and pinpoint the object with uncanny accuracy, almost as if she possessed a photographic memory.

“So you kick yourself over these things.”

“All the time. And I do mean all the time.”

“And you even get narked with yourself over that, too? You're narked that you're always getting narked with yourself, if you get my drift.”

He nodded vigorously. “Oh yes, and then some more. I know that this has also become a bad habit. You know, I remember something that my mother once confided, talking about how my father was. He didn't have much time for us. She said that it wasn't that he was a bad man, but simply that so much of his time and energy was being diverted into an inner fight he had with his own demons.”

“Yes, I can appreciate that, George. And by the way, we all struggle from time to time, so there's no need to be alarmed. Of course it's easy for us to see, looking in on such a situation, that the thing to do is to actually turn away from those demons and spend more time with others, until there comes a time when the demons have disappeared of their own accord. These things prey and feed on attention, be it positive attention or – more especially – negative attention and fear, as I'm sure you know. Take away their food supply and they eventually wither and die. However, it's not so easy to see this in oneself when faced with that dire situation.

“And there's another thing about habits, George. They grow like weeds. Give them long enough to let down roots and you have a devil of a job pulling them up. Wander round the garden and make a point of pulling up the odd tiny weed you see growing in the cracks in the paving and they don't get a chance to become established in the first place. This is something that my own Master impressed upon me and I, in my turn, have impressed upon young Tenzing. In time, he too will impress it upon those who follow in his footsteps.

“Not to worry, young man. You have a whole new life ahead of you, and we'll get these habits sorted out soon enough.”

Sonam glanced at the clock on the wall over George's shoulder. “Tell you what, let's leave it there for today. See me again tomorrow morning and – if you don't mind – there's a lady I'd like you to meet who can help guide us through this, so she'll be sitting in with us, as will my young protégé, Tenzing. Now don't worry: they won't bite.”

George was just about to thank the Master and get up to leave, when Sonam had another thought. “Just before you go, George, let me leave a little homework with you. Do you recall the story I told you about the man who was imprisoned for a crime that he did not commit?”

He nodded. “Vividly, though I can't guarantee that I can remember all the words. My mind goes totally blank when faced with such a task.”

“You mean you feel mentally paralysed?” the Master queried.

“Yes, I would say it feels something like that. Or my mind simply goes blank.”

Sonam said no more. He got up from his chair and surveyed the books in the new shelves, running his hand along the spines until he finally came to the one he had in mind.

“Sorry for the delay,” Sonam replied at length, and he laughed. “It's all very well putting the books in order. When they were in a state of near total disarray, I knew where everything was and I could put my hand on what I wanted in an instant; and now, for some unknown and perverse reason, I can't find a thing for love nor money. Still, I expect that I'll get used to it soon enough.”

He flipped through the pages of the book, then reached over his desk to retrieve a calling card and slipped it between the sheets.

“The story is in this book, George. Take the afternoon off work and study it very carefully. I shan't expect you to recite the story word for word, you'll be glad to know, though please bear in mind that in such traditional texts, words and phrases are carefully chosen, so study the text closely and repeatedly. However, we will be asking you probing questions about the story bright and early tomorrow morning. So thoroughly familiarize yourself with the passage and be sure to jot down any thoughts, feelings or questions that may arise; however spurious or tangential you might think them to be. Try to be honest and open and not censor your reactions and responses.”

“Should I bring the book back then?” he gulped.

“No, keep the book for now. You might perhaps begin to read it – not now, but after the meeting tomorrow – and be sure to return the book once you've finished with it.

“It's not that I don't trust you, George. It's just that we can't afford to have such books go missing, and books do tend to go walkabout, so that's why I'm telling you now.

“There's actually a traditional teaching tale about that.

The master – my own predecessor, in fact – sent one of his young students to fetch water in a large clay pot one day. Just before he left, he gave the child a clip around the ear. The boy complained, “What's that for?” and the Master replied. “That's what you get for dropping and smashing the pot.” “But I haven't dropped the pot,” the boy protested. To which the Master replied, “And the clip around the ear was to make sure you don't, because after the event, it would be too late to save the pot.”

18. A case of the jitters

Of course, George's meeting with Sonam that day – especially the homework assignment and the prospect of tomorrow's grilling – kept gnawing away at him all morning. George was anxious to make a start on the story, soon realizing as he tried to remember the words, just how little he really knew of it and as yet, due to work commitments, not being in a position to rectify this situation and relieve some of the tension.

As a consequence of this, of course, his mind was not fully on the job that morning, a fact that did not escape Ruth's attention. She questioned him about this and he filled in some of the detail and – again – George realized just how little he could remember of that first meeting with Sonam. He'd been paying attention at the time and yet even this early in the day, the detail was already beginning to fade in his memory.

“I think that's probably just a case of the jitters, George,” she suggested hopefully, gently stroking his arm. “You're not used to dealing with people, or even friends, in 'high places'.

“And there's something else, too. Sonam appears pretty relaxed, and yet there is a certain, almost electric atmosphere about him at times. I was talking to Choden about that only a few minutes ago and she said that when the Current (as they call it) was in full flow, some of the more sensitive students actually had to be taught at a distance, because they found the experience of close contact with the Master sometimes too intense. Choden said that they might be talking about some quite innocuous, everyday subject and almost every other word that was uttered was simply pulsating with deeper, parallel meanings; personal meaning that varied from student to student. And that when someone plucked the words off the tip of your tongue, or even in what you thought was the private sanctuary of your own mind – as tends to happen frequently – it could be quite shocking and leave you feeling momentarily naked before their eyes.

“Anyhow, let's go and have lunch together. Some of the others are heading off to the inn at the top of the hill, which would be pleasant. Then, since you've been given the afternoon off, I suggest you go up to your room and study and I'll see you at dinner time. And, if you still haven't got your homework finished, I can always find something to occupy myself in the evening and leave you to study in peace. How's that sound?”

“Thanks, Ruth. Yes, as long as that is okay with you, it's fine by me. I really don't want to let Sonam down.”

“Nor let yourself down,” she offered.

He nodded, adding. “Nor let you down, Ruth.”

“Oh, don't go worrying about what other people might think, George. You just concentrate on yourself right now. As Mildred once remarked: if needs must, needs must.”

George swatted for two whole hours that afternoon, before putting the book down and going off to see if he could find Ruth. So they spent the rest of the afternoon together helping Mildred with the books in the new library. They had plenty of time on their hands as they were filling the shelves faster than the others could ship them in from Sher Point and assemble them, and armed with a huge stack of blank cards, Mildred had already made a start on labelling and cataloguing the books. Mildred was in her element and not at all daunted by the scale of the task before her.

Then, after dinner, George went back to his room to study some more. There were a thousand and one questions he might be asked about the story and he had no hope in hell of anticipating all their questions, so all he could do really was try to familiarize himself with the story and try to comprehend at least some of its layers of deep meaning. It wasn't so much what you know, he was beginning to find, as how to know.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, for the next thing he heard was someone tapping on his door and when he roused himself and went to answer it, he found that it was Ruth. She'd thoughtfully brought them two cups of tea and some biscuits and also a little crystal-cut glass filled with some tempting-looking amber liquid.

“Thank you, precious,” he smiled, giving Ruth a peck on the cheek. Then: “What's that?”

“It's chungari,” she reliably informed him. “Master Sonam thought that it might help loosen you up and let you sleep a little easier tonight.”

“Anyhow, George, let's drink our tea whilst it's hot, then I'll take the tray back. It's getting quite late, so I'd suggest that you lay your book to one side for tonight and get your beauty sleep. You need to be at your finest tomorrow morning.”

George groaned. “Oh, please don't remind me, precious. And as for being loosened up, the anxiety seems to have worked its way through my system. I've been to the loo three times already since dinner. I tell you, I could have pebble dashed a row of houses at a hundred yards.”

Ruth grimaced. “Eek, that's altogether too much information, George. Now drink up and we'll turn in for the night.”

~~~O~~~

Ruth dropped by to tuck him into bed that night, and almost immediately George drifted into a wonderfully relaxed sleep, but it was not to last for very long.

Hearing a distant tapping sound, he woke to find himself standing in the confined, oak-built dock of a monumental court room, and it wasn't a gentle knocking that he heard, but one of three judges at their bench, banging his gavel loudly on the hardwood sound block on the desk before him, and here George did feel terribly overawed.

Brad looked behind him to see if there was a chair, but there was none. He turned to the Clerk, and though apparently understanding, the man shook his head.

“The defendant will remain standing throughout the proceedings,” the senior judge instructed. “However, members of the public and the press, you may now be seated.”

“Order, order!” the man called out loudly. “If there is any more of this uproar or caterwauling, I will instruct the court bailiffs to clear the public gallery and this trial will continue in closed session.

“Order, order! I will not ask again. Thank you. Thank you. Clerk of the Court, you may continue.”

The man turned to address Brad. “Take the Good Book in your left hand, raise your right hand and repeat after me ….”

George reached down to the ledge inside the dock and picked up the heavy tome, then raised his right hand, with his fingers outstretched and his palm facing toward the judges who sat before him, behind their elevated wooden bench.

“I swear by Almighty God,” he repeated as the clerk read out the oath. “That the evidence I give shall be the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth. So help me God.”

“Please state your full name.”

“Bradley Foster.”

One of the judges was straining to hear his tense reply. “Defendant in the dock, speak up, so that everyone in the court can hear your replies.”

“Bradley Foster,” he again replied, making an effort to raise his voice. He was feeling so tense and there was an emotional quaver in his voice.

“Your address.”

“Currently, I am of no fixed abode.”

“And your occupation.”

“I was a businessman.”

Again the judge was straining to hear.

He appeared to have a frog in his throat and he coughed to clear the congestion and took a sip of water.

“I was a businessman, but am currently unemployed,” he replied, again raising his voice.

The clerk turned to the judges and the senior judge replied. “Clerk of the Court, please read out the charges.”

“Bradley Foster, you are charged that on the evening of September 13th, 1543, you did murder June Foster, your wife, with malice aforethought, a capital crime punishable by life imprisonment or execution. Do you understand the charges and the gravity of the charges?”

“Yes sir, I understand.”

“Please address the bench.” Of course this kind of thing just made matters worse and he started to get quite flustered.

“Yes, I understand, your Honour.”

“And how do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

“I plead not guilty, your Honour.”

“And is the defendant of sound mind?” the judge enquired, taking off his spectacles and peering in the direction of the defence and the prosecution.

“In the expert opinion of doctors who have examined him, he is your Honour,” the Crown Prosecutor replied.

“Very good.”

“Madam, madam. No, not you. The fat lady in the gallery wearing the frumpy yellow frock. Yes, you. Madam, if you really must scrape your chair on the floor, please get it over with now. I don't want any more distractions or interruptions. Not even the rustling of a cellophane sweet wrapper.”

Someone in the gallery behind Brad let rip with a raucous fart at this point and it reverberated against the shiny leather of a chair. The court was filled with stifled titters and sniggering, momentarily lifting some of the growing tension, and the judge was not best chuffed.

“Yes, yes. I'm sure it's funny in an adolescent way, but one bar of the tune will suffice, we don't need the whole sonata.”

However, the man did not push the issue, presumably because they would have had a devil of a job trying to prove contempt or malice aforethought. He called instead upon the prosecuting attorney to outline the case for the Crown.

It was at this point, seeing the farce amidst this tragedy that Brad realized that he must be dreaming. He turned away and looked up into the gallery and he could see now that it was filled with glassy-eyed mannequins, the sort that you'd see in a tailor's window, with one or two notable exceptions.

There was Bethany Holt, the woman who'd been appointed to defend him, though quite why she should be up there in the gallery all of a sudden and not fighting it out on the floor with the prosecutor – where she'd been only moments earlier – he could not fathom.

Brad's heart thrilled when he saw who was sitting to Bethany's right. It was his beloved daughter, Sophia, looking so very elegant and grown up, and when she saw him looking her way, she raised her hand and gave him a little wave, with a cheeky grin etched across her face.

To Bethany's left sat that nervous, twitching, wretched little man, Norris Whitmore, whose blatant fabrications had condemned him. And still further to the left sat that despicable wretch, Tarquin Hall, who had brought about this great calamity, blithely chomping away on what looked like a large carton of popcorn. Brad would lay odds of a hundred to one that he was the man who had murdered his dear wife, June.

When Norris Whitmore caught Brad's eye, the man immediately cast his eyes down and sat there twitching. If there was a weak link in the chain, then he was it, and Brad could not believe that his defender Bethany Hall had not taken that line and trashed his testimony.

But when Tarquin Hall made eye contact, he sat there unmoved and unflinching and with a leering grin etched across his features. If looks could kill, then either he or Tarquin Hall would have been croaking and going blue in the face at that moment. Fortunately for Brad and unfortunately for that despicable wretch, apparently they could not. That single malevolent exchange was proof enough for him of Tarquin Hall's depraved character and guilt in this terrible affair.

“Defendant in the dock!” the senior judge bellowed and Brad winced as the police officer who stood behind him gave him a sharp clip around the back of his head with his hand, bringing him back to his senses. He turned back to face the judge, apologizing profusely.

Dream or not, he was clearly not in control of events; of that he was all too painfully aware.

At this point, the prosecution finished their opening speech. It had seemed to go on and on, though being distracted, Brad had missed most of what was being said. The man took his seat and the senior judge called upon the Defence Counsel, Bethany Hall to address the court.

“And please be brief, Madam Defender,” the judge requested, consulting his pocket watch. “Time's pressing and I intend to adjourn no later than noon today and to reconvene at ten tomorrow morning.”

Again, Brad found this strange and he did have the feeling that this couldn't actually be happening to him, that it simply did not ring true; but at that moment, he appeared helpless and unable to break free. His mind must have begun to wander again and for his troubles, he received a second clip around the back of his head from the police officer who stood behind him. The blow felt even more heavy-handed this time and it momentarily shocked and stunned him, and yet it failed to wake him. To make matters worse, the man reeked of stale tobacco and body odour which seemed to hang around him like a noxious and invisible cloud.

Bethany Holt took a huge gamble that day in what little time she was allotted, and it was a gamble not with her own money, but with somebody else's hard-earned life. She baldly stated that she did not have a shred of evidence to prove that Brad had not committed the murder, which was indeed the heinous crime that the prosecution had outlined. However, she stated that she was wholly confident that she could tear the prosecution's flimsy, circumstantial evidence to shreds, and that when the judges had heard this, (there being no jury to decide the case), they would acquit her client on the grounds of a woeful lack of evidence. And then the police could launch a fresh investigation to find the real culprit, who was still at large and a grave danger to the public.

And that was that. The senior judge adjourned the court and Brad was taken back down to the cells, to languish there until called upon the next day.

Brad fell asleep again that day whilst laid out on the cold rubber mattress in his cell. He had hoped that he might awake to find himself back at Foxholes, but that was a forlorn hope. When he finally did awake, it was to find that the whole day and night had passed – though he couldn't remember waking earlier and eating, or getting up to use the bucket in the corner of the cell – and that it was time for the trial to recommence.

Again, Brad realized that he simply must be dreaming; and yet he was singularly unable to do a damn thing about it. He found that doubly frustrating.

As he climbed the steep steps from the cells to the dock, which stood in the centre of the courtroom, he snatched a quick glance up at the public gallery and saw Sophia there yet again. She waved, but before he had the chance to nod back in her direction, his hands being manacled, the police officer had gruffly turned him round to face the bench.

Brad did contemplate giving that grumpy old sod a kick on the shins, thinking that if the man hit him hard enough, he must surely wake up, but in the end he thought better of that idea. In all the years he'd been having this recurring dream, he'd never been able to take in or remember the detail to this degree and the ensuing confusion had only added to his worries. So if he were here now, as if wide awake, then there was always the possibility that this was happening for a good reason. Therefore, perhaps it would pay him to follow the proceedings closely and find out what had really gone on on that dreadful night?

Having heard the opening speeches, it was now the turn of the prosecution to detail the events and to produce evidence in support of their case; and the defence would be given the opportunity to present their own evidence. Witnesses would then be brought in by the prosecution, and subjected to cross examination by the defence; the defence would bring in their own witnesses who would in turn be cross examined by the prosecution, and each side would have one last opportunity to sum up.

At that point, the judges would adjourn for their deliberations. The senior judge would don his black skullcap and they would return to pronounce their judgement. As if that final drama was not enough, it was only then, at the last moment before delivering the verdict that the senior judge would take off his skullcap and either acquit the defendant or sentence him to life imprisonment. Or, should he leave the skullcap on, to read out those fateful words. That, having been found guilty of murder with malice aforethought, the prisoner was to be taken to jail and thence to a place of execution, detailing the fiendish mechanism by which such sentence was to be carried out. And again, the judges having a choice of options, it was only at this last moment that the prisoner would find out by what means they were to be dispatched.

Some favoured the wielding of an axe; some, the hangman's noose; others, a fatal injection. Whatever the means, there was always the risk that death would not be instantaneous. In the case of hanging, if the hangman failed to correctly estimate the amount of ballast to use or the height of the drop, then they might have to yank on his legs in his dying breath to break his neck, so that he wasn't slowly strangled to death on the one hand, or be fully decapitated on the other. In the case of the axe, it might require a second, more carefully aimed blow. And in the case of lethal injection, it had been widely rumoured that victims had screamed blue murder before finally succumbing.

Brad knew all this in the dream, he could see that now; and yet when he awoke, he could recall none of this detail. It was hidden, and hidden, and hidden from his everyday waking consciousness, though fragments would occasionally burst in on him and frighten the life out of him for a few moments … until he slammed the lid back down on this seething mass of emotion and cast it from his conscious mind once more. This was a lot for him to bear, and there was little wonder that it should have left him deeply wounded and troubled and that those wounds never seemed to heal, but were regularly re-opened.

For a third time, Brad cried out as a blow landed on the back of his head. Again, he must have drifted off and again he was brutally brought back down to earth with an awful thud.

The prosecution had just about finished detailing events and presenting this round of evidence. He made it all sound so cut and dried. Snatching another furtive glance he caught sight of Tarquin Hall again, and he appeared to be relishing every minute of it, whilst others in the public gallery sat blithely knitting.

The prosecutor continued. “The defendant, Bradley Foster found that his wife, June had been having an affair with another man. Later I shall bring forward a witness who will testify that she tried to warn the defendant of that affair several weeks earlier, and a second witness who told the defendant that he had personally witnessed that affair in progress and that the defendant's initial disbelief quickly turned to anger. That was at 4pm on the very day of the murder.”

“I shall bring forward a third witness who will testify that the defendant dashed from his office in a rage only moments after this, throwing the keys at her and telling her to lock up the premises and leave at 5pm. When asked where he was going, the defendant snarled – and I quote – to sort out my bloody wife once and for all.”

“I shall bring forward a fourth witness who will testify that at 4.30pm that same day, she heard shouting and banging emanating from the house next door – the defendant's house – and that she is certain that this was the defendant and his wife having what she terms an almighty row, the like of which [she] had not heard in all her born years,” she being sixty years of age and, as a chaplain, a trusted pillar of society. This witness will also testify that she saw the defendant leave the house, still in a rage, at 5.30pm that afternoon.”

“I shall bring forward a fifth witness who had been in the Dog and Bone pub on Chester Street from the time it opened at 6pm until closing time at 11pm. He will testify that the defendant was there waiting outside the pub door just before opening time and that he already appeared to have been drinking and smelt strongly of whiskey. When asked what the matter was, the defendant confirmed that he'd just discovered that his wife was having an affair, and that he intended to get what he termed totally rat arsed.”

“Rat arsed?” enquired the judge.

“That's a vernacular term for blind drunk, your Honour.”

“Ah, I'm with you now. Pray continue.”

“Three more witnesses will be brought forward who will testify that they heard the defendant talking to another man, a stranger whom we have not been able to locate, that – quote – I could kill the cheating cow, meaning kill his wife. This was at approximately 7pm, by which time according to the landlord, the defendant had consumed four double whiskeys, had become increasingly loud and angry and had been politely asked to leave the premises. He did indeed leave quietly shortly afterwards, which is the one and only one good thing he did that night.”

“Within an hour, the defendant's wife had indeed been murdered. The doctor attending the scene placed the time of death at 8pm that evening and subsequent medical examination showed that that the cause of death was multiple stab wounds to the torso. Several bones were fractured, indicating a frenzied and extremely violent and brutal attack, causing great suffering before eventual death.”

“Following an extensive police search, bloodstained clothing and the murder weapon, a large and heavy bladed kitchen knife, were later found in an incinerator in a basement at the defendant's business premises on North Street, a few minutes walk from the defendant's house. Apparently an attempt had been made to burn the clothes and the knife in order to conceal the evidence, but that operation had been botched. A vent in the incinerator had not been opened and so the fire had not taken hold and had gone out, indicating that the perpetrator either didn't know how to operate the incinerator correctly or was too drunk ....”

“Objection, your Honour!” Bethany Holt called out across the court. “That's pure conjecture.”

“Sustained. Clerk, you will strike that last remark from the record.”

“That's it Bethany, you tell 'em.”

“The defendant will be silent. You will have your chance to give your version of the story later, when the witnesses are called. Go on.”

“Thank you, your Honour. Witnesses will testify that the bloodstained clothes match those worn by the defendant when he visited the Dog and Bone and that the knife matches a set of knives found in the kitchen of the defendant's own home, where the murder took place. It was a six knife set of varying sizes and uses, and only the other five sizes were found in that kitchen. The bloodstained clothes are before you and labelled Exhibit A. The murder weapon is labelled Exhibit B and the matching knives from the kitchen are labelled Exhibit C, your Honour.”

Brad spoke up again. “I thought you said I gave my keys to Margery when I left work? So how did I get into the basement?”

“The defendant will remain silent. If you do not, then you will be held in contempt of court or removed to the cells.”

The policeman behind Brad gave him an almighty clout to ram that message home and he staggered forward, holding onto the wooden framework of the dock for support. And, no, he still didn't wake up.

Nevertheless, the prosecutor chose to answer that question. “It would make perfect sense for the defendant to have a spare set of keys, your Honour.”

“Indeed. Go on.”

“Yes, I do have a spare set, or at least I did,” Brad replied. He was about to enquire whether they'd found his spare keys in the kitchen. However, that was as far as he got before the policeman silenced him once more. The man drew his padded lead truncheon and gave Brad an almighty swipe across the arm, catching his funny bone and making him grit his teeth for a few excruciating moments. But that couldn't stop Brad thinking. If the spare keys weren't there, then there were no prizes for guessing who'd taken them and the knife. And black trousers and white shirts were commonplace. Brad had even given Tarquin Hall the full guided tour, at a time when the man was thinking he might perhaps invest in the company, or leading them up the garden path, more like.

The judge appeared to be at the end of his tether with Brad and about to hold him in contempt, but it was actually the prosecutor who spoke up and saved him from that.

“No, sir. I think the defendant's outbursts say it all really, your Honour, and I'm not at all phased by it. Give him enough rope and he'll hang himself.”

Again Bethany Holt was on her feet. “Objection, your Honour. However, may I have a quick word with my client?”

“Sustained and granted.”

“Brad,” Bethany Holt hissed at him, as he bent down to hear what she had to say. “For heaven's sake bite your tongue and bide your time, man. We'll have our say in a minute. You are not doing yourself any favours with these emotional outbursts; you're playing right into the prosecution's hands.”

“Sorry,” he replied, flushing bright red. “But before you go, I didn't use my spare keys. They should be still hanging on a hook in the kitchen, but I bet they're not. You see ….”

“Thank you, Ms. Holt,” the judge prompted and she dutifully returned to her seat.

“Back to you, Mister Prosecutor.”

“That concludes this round of evidence by the prosecution, your Honour. We are confident that the witnesses we bring forward will more than adequately prove the Crown's case.”

“Very well. I suggest that we adjourn for lunch and then this afternoon, Madam Defender, you may have the floor.”

At this point, however, Brad was suddenly aware of someone shaking him and he turned to see Ruth standing there behind him in the dock. “Time to wake up,” she called out.

Quite abruptly, George woke up to find himself in his bedroom. Ruth went round to the windows and flung the curtains open wide, flooding the room with blinding sunlight and he sat up in bed and looked around, quite bleary eyed.

“Time to wake up, sleepy head,” she cooed.

“What time is it?” he wanted to know.

Ruth checked her watch. “Eight o'clock,” she told him.

“Eight o'clock? But I'm supposed to be sorting out breakfasts in the kitchen at seven.”

“You worry too much, George Mackfee. I saw your name on the rota and crossed it out and pencilled in my own name. I thought that you could do with the rest more than me.”

George held his arms out and they had a quick cuddle. “Oh, Ruth, you're an angel.”

Indeed, standing there, framed in the window with the rays of golden sun lighting her up and casting a wonderful glowing aura about her, Ruth could very well have been an angel sent down from heaven to help him, and he felt greatly privileged to know her.

“You're welcome. Now get a move on or you'll be late for Sonam. And that doesn't mean that you don't have time to get a decent wash and have breakfast.”

And with that, Ruth skipped out of the room and left him to it.

19. The second encounter

As George was getting washed, he was frantically trying to remember the dream before it slipped from his conscious memory. Even now, only minutes later, the shadow of a doubt was creeping in again, leaving him thinking that it was either just another dream, though a vivid one, or a sign that he was deluded.

When George took off his shirt, however, to wash under his arms, he saw the red mark and the purple bruising on his left arm, and remembered clearly that this is where the policeman had hit him with his truncheon. And that simply could not be explained away, unless by some head shrink adamant that he had some deeply repressed hatred for himself and that the wound was self-inflicted.

George wolfed down his breakfast and headed off toward Sonam's study as fast as his legs would take him, without breaking into a run. He arrived in a bit of a fluster, just after nine to find that the others were already there waiting for him.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said, flopping down in a chair that Sonam offered him.

Sonam introduced him. “This is George, the lad I've just been telling you about.”

His ears pricked up and Sonam smiled. “Only good things, George. George, you know Tenzing. He's shadowing me in my work and learning the ropes. After this meeting's over, it would be good if you two could get to know one-another better. Stick to Tenzing like glue for now and you won't go far wrong.”

Tenzing nodded eagerly. “Hi George. Yes, I'd like that.”

Sonam turned to the middle-aged and well-rounded lady who sat beside Tenzing on the settee. She had dark olive skin and long black hair, but wore it bunched up on top of her head rather than flowing over her shoulders. “And this is Rinzen. She's just arrived here from Narayana where she's one of the senior students specializing in herbal medicine and certain other arcane arts. She'll be graduating very shortly and will take up one of the teaching posts here.”

The lady smiled and bowed her head slightly. “Glad to meet you, George.”

“Yes, and you, Rinzen.”

“So, George, what's been happening since I saw you yesterday?”

“Well, Sonam, I had the most vivid dream last night.”

“Yes,” the Master nodded, not in the least surprised. “I thought you might. Only good dreams, I hope.”

George got up, unbuttoned his shirt sleeve and pushed it up past his elbow.

“My word, what have you done there?” Rinzen asked, getting up from the settee and coming across to examine his arm.

“Oh, it's just a bruise,” George told her. “It happened in a dream last night.”

“What happened, did you flail your arm around in your sleep and bang it on the bed head or something?”

George re-buttoned his short and they both went back to their seats. “No, I didn't do it,” he replied.

The others exchanged glances.

“Then I think perhaps you should tell us about this dream, George,” Rinzen requested. “And don't skimp on the details. Do you often have dreams like this?”

“I've been having this dream a lot lately and it's been going on for years. For almost as long as I can remember, in fact. In this particular instance, I think that what triggered it was studying the story of the prisoner that Sonam set me for homework yesterday.”

“The prisoner?”

“A man is sentenced to life imprisonment for a crime that he did not commit,” he began.

“Ah yes,” the lady nodded and so did Tenzing. “I know that story well.”

“And do you know why Sonam gave you that story to study?” she asked. She could have asked Sonam directly, but she didn't.

George shrugged. “I don't think I did at the time, but now after the dream, and off the top of my head, I would say that this is the story of my life.”

“Ah, I'm beginning to see now. I think perhaps you should tell us about your dream then, and I'll stay quiet and not interrupt. You must tell me if I intrude.”

“It only happened a short time ago and it was so vivid and yet now I'm already beginning to forget and to wonder if it wasn't all in my mind. I was standing in a wooden dock in a courtroom and I was being tried for the murder of my wife,” George began and he went on to relate everything that had happened in the dream that he could still recall, including his inability to wake up even when the policeman in the dock hit him hard. He continued his story right up to the point where Ruth finally woke him.

“And do you believe that this dream was real?” Rinzen enquired.

“Well if you'd have asked me when I was in the dream, or even shortly after I woke up, Rinzen, I would have adamantly said yes.”

“And now?”

“And now, I'm not so sure.”

Rinzen turned to Sonam. “Master Sonam, I wonder if perhaps we might try a little experiment? It may take some time, so I could do with a couple of hours this morning, rather than the one that you suggested earlier.”

Sonam bowed his head. “You're the expert here, Rinzen. Do whatever you need to do and take all the time you like.”

“Do you have any chungari here?” the lady enquired. “I'm sure that it would help.”

“No sooner said than done,” Sonam replied, getting up out of his chair and going over to an ornate rosewood cabinet by the bright and airy bay window.

“Four glasses?” he enquired.

“Yes, that would be good,” Rinzen nodded. “Thank you Master Sonam.”

Then Rinzen appeared to have an afterthought. “No, wait a minute. George, you mentioned a girl's name a few times – Ruth. The one who woke you from your dream. Are you close to her?”

“Those two?” piped up Sonam. “They go together like an old sock and an old shoe.”

“Yes. We came here together from Hodweir.”

“Hodweir?” she enquired.

“It's what we call the Outlands,” Tenzing informed her, speaking up for the first time.

“Oh, I see. And would you mind if Ruth sat in with us today? Would you like that? Do you feel that would help?”

“Sure,” he nodded eagerly. “I think that would be a great idea.”

Tenzing was already on his feet. “I'll go find her. I think she and Mildred are making a start on the general office.”

“Then I'll pour five glasses,” Sonam decided. “That's a nice round number and it will help balance things up.”

They pushed the settee and chairs out of the way to the periphery of the room that day and instead sat on quite high cushions on the wonderfully patterned rug that stretched across the centre of the study. Apparently they used these cushions in their meditations, or at least they would once those sessions were up and running. Rinzen showed him how to sit properly, with legs crossed and spine erect. He did tell her that he felt rather tense and stiff, but Rinzen reliably informed him that he'd relax soon enough as the session progressed.

George had expected that they'd simply sit there and talk, and that's how Rinzen began, whilst they listened. Within moments, Sonam and young Tenzing appeared to drift off and Rinzen leant forward and gently closed their eyes, which were actually still open at that time. That Sonam should drift off in this manner, George could put down to age, but Tenzing?

“Just relax, George,” he heard Rinzen telling him. She sounded a little more distant now, but he could feel himself resisting the subtle pull that he had begun to experience. “Just relax. Take slow, deep breaths and relax. Feel yourself sinking, sinking, sinking into the soft cushion beneath you. Relax and let yourself go. Just let yourself gently drift off ….”

Within moments, he awoke once more, to find that the study had dissolved around him.

“Don't fall asleep, George,” someone called as if from some long distance and he recognized it as Rinzen's voice. “You are fully aware of what's going on around you. Now we can't as yet see where you are, so watch events carefully and be our eyes and our ears. Whatever you see, describe it to us; and whatever you hear, repeat the words out loud. So, George, where do you find yourself now?”

“My name is not George,” he replied.

“Then who are you?”

“I am Bradley Foster. My friends call me Brad.”

“Greetings, Brad,” the voice replied warmly. “And I'm Rinzen, remember?”

Brad cast his mind back, remembering for a moment that this was only a dream. “Oh, yes, I remember you now.”

“Good. And where are you right now? Describe your surroundings in fine detail, so that we can focus on you more clearly.”

“I'm in a dark room, Rinzen,” he told her.

“Stand up and explore the room,” Rinzen suggested.

“There's a small window set into the wall. It's high up in the wall and there's no glass in the window, so I can feel a breeze blowing through it.”

“Can you see what's outside the window?”

“No, I'm not tall enough to see out.”

“Is there a chair in the room you could use?”

Brad cast his eyes about.

“No, all I can see is a thin rubber mattress on the floor and an old galvanized bucket in the corner of the room.”

He stepped back, involuntarily, seeing a disgusting brown beetle scurrying across the floor toward him.

There was a pause and Rinzen prompted him again. “What are you doing now, Brad?”

“Getting out of the way of the beetles foraging about on the floor. They're disgusting.”

“Never mind that, Brad. They can do you no harm. Tell me about the room you're in. Do you know this place?”

“Yes, I can see now: I'm back inside the cell beneath the courthouse. There are thick bars in the window and the door is heavy and reinforced, so there's no way out.”

“This is your dream world, you know Brad. You can take charge and you can do whatever you want to. If you go to the door, you can open it and walk out at any time,” Rinzen confidently informed him.

“Really?”

“Really,” he could see her nodding in his mind's eye. “Why don't you give it a try?”

Brad went over to the door. “But there's no handle on the inside,” he reported, with disappointment.

Just then, however, the door did open and he had to quickly dodge out of the way as it swung wide and banged against the stone wall.

“Right Foster, let's be having you,” a man requested, taking him firmly by the arm. It was the stocky policeman who stood in the dock behind him and who kept clouting him on the back of the head whenever he misbehaved.

He'd been silent for some time and he heard Rinzen asking him what was happening and to be their eyes and ears, so he told her.

The policeman gave him the queerest look. “Did you say something?” he wanted to know. “You'll speak only when spoken to, Foster, unless you want to feel the back of my hand.”

From that moment on, Brad stopped speaking out loud, resorting to merely thinking things in his head or whispering them under his breath.

“Can you still hear me?” he asked the distant voice.

“You're barely audible, Brad. You need to speak up.”

The policeman led him up the steep staircase and into the dock, closing the door firmly behind them, locking it and pocketing his keys.

“All rise,” the Clerk of the Court called out as the judges made their stately entrance from a room to the left of the bench. “Court is now in session, with the Honourable Phileas Meyers, Mavis Wilkinson-Smythe and Roland Butterworth presiding.”

The officers took their seats and the senior judge signalled that the public may now sit down. “Madam Defender, the floor is yours ….”

Bethany Holt rose to her feet, took a sip of water, cleared her throat and addressed the court.

Brad had been hopeful, but as he listened to Bethany he could feel his hopes faltering and gradually fading. She used flowery words, and she used a lot of them, going on, and on, and on for several minutes almost without a breath. But she wasn't bringing anything new and fresh or startling to the table; at best she was simply attempting to sow doubt in the judges' minds, no doubt hoping herself that they might eventually decide that there was insufficient reliable evidence to commit him. And it could be that the senior judge, who seemed to be quite highly opinionated and idiosyncratic, had already made his mind up. Once people made their minds up about a thing, you had a devil of a job convincing them otherwise, even in the face of strong contradictory evidence. And these weren't gems of the first water she was casting before the court, not that they were swine – even he could see that. It might be better described as bilgewater.

“Brad,” called a distant voice. “We can barely hear you. You really must speak more distinctly. Describe your location in detail and relay whatever you hear, word for word.”

“I can't,” he hissed under his breath. “Every time I speak up, the judge tells me off, or the policeman behind me in the dock gives me a clout round the back of my head.”

“Ouch!” That's precisely what happened and the blow sent Brad reeling. “See what I mean?”

“Then bear with me, Brad. I can see that we'll have to take a different approach. Now, I'm going to slowly count backwards from five down to one. As I count down, you will gradually awaken and when I reach one, you will be wide awake and rested and fully back in the land of the living. Five …. The dream around you is fading and you are beginning to awaken. Four …..

20. The debriefing

Rinzen waited patiently as George began to come round, encouraging him to get up and walk about and to look around the four corners of the room to help reorientate himself. She also had him repeat his name and details about himself, to help bring him back to being George again and not his alter ego.

“Glad to have you back in the land of the living, George,” she smiled. “Please, retake your seat and we'll spend just a few minutes listening as you recount to us what happened in your dream, and then you can go about everyday business.”

After George had finished and had gone off with young Ruth, Rinzen turned to Sonam and to his protégé, Tenzing.

“So, what are your impressions, Rinzen?” Master Sonam prompted her.

Rinzen sighed, though not on her own behalf, but rather for George. “I'm in two minds. I sensed a great deal of resistance, Master Sonam.”

“I'm in two minds?” The Master raised his eyebrows. That was quick, even by Master Sonam's standards.

“At first, I thought that the resistance might be coming from George himself ….”

“But? Do go on.”

“But it could be that George is reliving a deeply traumatic and unresolved past life experience and that the resistance is coming from very real and powerful external forces.

“Either way, he's clearly not in control of the process, that I do know for certain. And I also realize that we can't simply sit back and wait however many months or years it takes until he develops to the point when he can at length take charge of his processes. This is a major issue for George, and we really have to tackle it here and now. And what I am sensing is that this can only come about through resolving whatever it is that is haunting George, once and for all.”

“So, do you have a stratagem in mind, Rinzen?” Sonam enquired. “You're the expert, so we'll go along with whatever you propose.”

“Well, if George is prohibited in some way from communicating with us, sitting on the outside, then that really only leaves one option.”

“Which is?”

“Which is to get inside George's mind – to make the descent and go in there – and see for ourselves.”

“Such a thing is possible?” Tenzing enquired.

Rinzen smiled. “Had it not been possible, young Tenzing, then I would not have suggested it. However, it will not be easy. The easy and necessary part will be obtaining George's permission to intrude. He's almost guaranteed to agree or at the very least to be open to persuasion. But once 'Brad' takes over the reins, we may find that permission abruptly rescinded and be faced with even more heightened resistance.”

“When would you like this to take place?” Sonam enquired. “Tomorrow at the same time?”

Rinzen thought for a minute and finally shook her head. “No, let's meet again this evening, once our dinner has settled.”

“Am I right in sensing a certain urgency?” Sonam asked her.

“Yes, I sense this, too, Master Sonam. You see, though George has been plagued by these nightmares for many years now, according to his own accounts which I do not doubt, there's something about this present wave of dreams that is even more disturbing. The trial is progressing and – though don't ask me why – I dread to think what might happen when the trial ends and he is convicted. The outcome may prove more than his mind is able to bear, and I'm sure that you can imagine where that might lead.

“He might end up being committed to an insane asylum,” she added. “And that would be tragic and calamitous. But don't breathe a word of this concern. George is in safe hands, of course, but lacking knowledge, he really needs to believe and to trust that it is so.”

21. A different approach

As they sat there that evening, sipping another glass of chungari before again embarking on their quest, with the lights in the room dimmed this time, Rinzen said a quiet prayer and called upon the Elder Abbots of their Order, Rifatzada[15] and his consort, Banu Zadar[16] to come to their aid. This invocation had a technical part to play in the proceedings, but the more ritualistic elements were more for George's benefit than their own, designed to help build up his trust in them. Without that trust, in lieu of real knowledge, they were doomed to failure. George himself would see to that.

“I'm going to need your help tonight, George,” she told the lad of length. “And perhaps every ounce of your courage.”

George gulped at the enormity of this and nodded in agreement.

“Now, we've already discovered how difficult it is to communicate with you long distance, from the outside looking in. So what I propose is that you go back to your dream once again and that I shall then join you there.”

Again, the lad nodded, though he confessed that he couldn't understand how such a thing might be brought about.

“It's really very simple,” she told George. “Once you are back in your dream, you should think of me. And then you must do something very important, and that is you must invite me to be with you there. Without that invitation, I cannot enter and be there with you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but can't I just invite you now?” he queried.

Rinzen shook her head. “No, it will require the consent of Bradley Foster. Now do you understand?”

“Yes. I'll remember you and I'll invite you in.”

“Good,” then let me take these glasses safely out of the way, then we'll spend a short time becoming more relaxed and we'll begin.”

When George awoke in the dream that evening, he found himself not back in the cold, dark cell, but still in the dock. It took him some time before he worked out quite what was happening. It appeared that the prosecution had already called their witnesses, so the trial must have been continuing during the time he was absent. So Rinzen had been right to hold another session that evening, then, rather than waiting until the next day.

As he said those words, he again recalled that he was dreaming, and he seemed to recollect that she'd asked him to do something for her once he was back in the dream, but he couldn't for the life of him remember what that was.

Back in Sonam's study, Rinzen was growing a little alarmed. Since he'd entered his trance, George had done little other than mumble a few words, and no amount of coaxing on her part seemed to be getting through to him. She turned to Master Sonam and, whispering in case George should overhear, she expressed her concern.

Ruth was with them again that evening and it was she who spoke up at this point. “Can I try?” she enquired. “Perhaps I might get through to him? Just tell me what to say.”

Well, it was worth a try. She and George were close friends; indeed, were they a few years older, you might call them lovers, so if anyone could get through to George, yes, perhaps it was her. And, judging by the gentle quiver that ran through her at that moment, the Lady Banu Zadar appeared to agree.

“That is an excellent idea, Ruth,” she whispered back, shuffling across the floor to be close to the girl. “Now listen carefully. This is what you must tell George ….”

Ruth nodded and she took her cushion and went to sit close by him and to hold his hands in hers.

At first George appeared to be as oblivious of Ruth as he was with her, but Ruth persisted. And what finally woke George to Ruth's presence was the distinct and unmistakable whiff of her perfume in the air. In time, Rinzen could see him stirring in his sleep and he did mumble a few words, though they were nearly inaudible and quite slurred, so they couldn't make out what he was saying. Seeing this, she encouraged Ruth to continue. And then, when they'd almost given up on George, they made a breakthrough.

“Come in Ruth, and Rinzen,” they heard him call out and when they heard those words, both she and Ruth could have cried for joy. And then George yelped, suddenly being brought out of his reverie by a blow to the back of the head from that confounded policeman.

George swung round on the man and gave him a piece of his mind. “You do that again, pal, and you will regret it for the rest of your life,” he snarled, quite taking the man aback. That was an important moment, perhaps a turning point in the proceedings.

But at that moment they heard a commotion at the back of the courtroom and both he and the policeman were distracted before they again came to blows

Rinzen pushed past the policeman who stood guarding the main entrance at the back of the courtroom. She strode down the wide aisle between the rows of seats, toward the desks at which the attorneys sat, brushing aside the usher who sought to halt her in her tracks.

“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” demanded the senior judge, rising to his feet and hammering his gavel repeatedly. “If you do not leave, Madam, I shall instruct the bailiffs to remove you.”

Rinzen gave the judge a withering look and he collapsed in his seat, taking her as much by surprise as him.

She turned to Bethany Holt. “Enough of this charade. Up you get.”

Ms. Holt protested and look beseechingly toward the bench, but they were momentarily speechless. “I'm here to defend Bradley Foster, and I shan't leave,” the woman replied adamantly.

“Then sit down and be quiet.”

She turned back to the judges. “Mister Foster has indicated that he wishes me to represent him in this case.”

“You being, madam?” asked the Clerk of the Court.

“Banu Zadar,” she replied confidently. She'd actually meant to say her own name, but those were the words that came out. So be it.

The man looked none the wiser.

The senior judge found his voice again, though he'd clearly been shaken by this intrusion. He addressed himself to the defendant. “Is this so?”

Bradley Foster stood in the dock, as bemused as the rest were, looking first to Bethany Holt, then to the woman. As their eyes met, recognition dawned on him and he saw for the first time that it was Rinzen who stood before him, though she was like a woman possessed. Rinzen nodded her head up and down and spoke to him, though not out loud, rather from mind to mind.

“Yes,” he replied falteringly, turning to face the bench. “Yes, I appoint Rinzen to represent me in this case.”

Again Ms. Holt protested, but the judge ignored her. “So be it.” He turned to Rinzen. “Madam Defender, you may call your first witness.”

“I shall call only two, your Honour. And the first is Norris Whitmore.”

The Clerk of the Court produced a long list and searched through it. “Your Honour, this witness has not been submitted to the court. He is on the prosecution's list, but not that of the defence.”

“Indeed!” the prosecutor spoke up, rising to his feet. “And I strongly protest.”

“Sustained,” the judge agreed. “The defence will stick to the list of witnesses previously submitted to the court.”

Rinzen was not at all phased by this, though she was sure by now that they were making up some of these rules as they went along.

“Well, two could play that game. Be bold, Rinzen,” a voice called to her in her own head. It was Banu Zadar, one of the Elder Abbots of their Order. She was indeed honoured.

Rinzen sucked in her breath. The Lady Banu Zadar had never let her down before. “Look again,” she suggested, addressing herself to the clerk.

“I've looked once,” he replied.

“Then look again,” she repeated, more forcefully this time. “I think you'll find that Norris Whitmore's name appears toward the bottom of the list.”

“Very well.” The clerk carefully went through the list and then he stopped, his mouth agape, before turning back to the judge. “I crave forgiveness, your Honour. I was mistaken. Norris Whitmore is indeed on the list.”

The prosecutor, too, looked rather flabbergasted by this turn of events and he quietly sat down again.

The judge beckoned the clerk over to the bench and he checked the list for himself, the clerk pointing to the entry that he'd overlooked.

“My apologies, Madam Defender. You may indeed call your first witness.”

“Call Norris Whitmore,” the Clerk of the Court requested in turn.

Up in the public gallery, Rinzen caught sight of a diminutive figure creeping between the rows of seats and heading for the exit. She was in no doubt that he was attempting to make good his escape.

“He's up there in the gallery,” she called out, pointing in Whitmore's direction. As she spoke, he froze on the spot.

“Bailiff,” the judge requested. “Detain the witness and escort him into court and to the stand.”

At that moment, Rinzen had a strange intuition. Turning, she looked up into the public gallery and she could see that Ruth was there with her too, and she waved to Rinzen and to George down below.

By the time Norris Whitmore got to the stand, the sweat was pouring off his brow and, his knees threatening to give way beneath him, he had to cling to the stand until the judge took pity on the man and let him sit. Since the prosecution had finished with him and Bethany Holt had offered only the most limp wristed cross examination, stunned by his testimony and unable to poke holes in it, Whitmore thought that he'd got away with it. So being recalled was the last thing on his mind.

Rinzen walked up to the man and hovered there throughout her examination of him, deliberately playing on the man's nerves. And she made a special point of engaging the quivering Norris Whitmore in lingering, penetrating eye contact. He kept fidgeting and breaking his gaze.

That said, as she questioned the man, he doggedly stuck to his story. She knew he was lying through his teeth and yet she had no means of disproving what he had to say, so in spite of his nervous disposition, he grew more confident, repeating his falsehoods with renewed vigour and even embellishing them. And the great tension that the man was under told Rinzen another thing, too. That he dare not tell the truth for fear that this would land him in still deeper, murkier, perhaps shark infested water.

One thing was clear, the only option she had was to try to break Norris Whitmore down and to do that, she had to make herself appear even more frightening than the prospect that his lies should be unearthed.

It was at that precise moment that she felt Rifatzada enter her. He was always such a gentle, wise and caring soul; but she knew, too, that he would make the most staunch and feared antagonist. Those in the Order were not quietists, nor even pacifists. They did what was for the best, or what had to be done.

It was Rifatzada himself who spoke when Rinzen next opened her mouth, and she was wholly glad that she was not on the receiving end of his utterances, which cleft the air like a razor-sharp scimitar. Even the Crown Prosecutor, who was a hulk of a man and battle hardened, if perhaps a little hidebound, appeared stunned and, though he might have challenged Rifatzada, he remained seated and laid no objections.

The words that came out of Rinzen's mouth sounded innocuous enough: “Tell me again, in your own words ….” However, there were other, unvoiced words behind those words, that were felt rather than heard and which left a lasting impression, and they came for Norris Whitmore like a bolt out of the blue in what was known in the Tradition as “The Moment of Truth”. In that earth-shattering moment, one suddenly realized that there simply could be no “ifs” and “buts” and “shades of grey” and there was not one iota of room left for more excuses; for everything was laid bare for all to see (or at least so it might appear to the recipient of this grace, which some might call the All Seeing Eye). It was a dreadful moment and, though only after the event, of course, it was a wonderfully liberating moment, when all was forgiven and only welcome and acceptance and love remained. More often than not, the Moment of Truth arrived in the middle of an initiation, but sometimes as a necessary intervention on behalf of the real Powers that Be, it might occur in the midst of a person's everyday life.

“Tell me again, in your own words ….” Rinzen asked, a second time, this time to break the spell.

For a moment, it was not she whom the man saw behind her eyes, but Rifatzada himself in all the Source's glory.

Norris Whitmore looked to her with beseeching eyes, as if to beg her to ask him anything else, anything else but that. She felt a certain degree of compassion for this wretched man who had stooped so low, of course. It wasn't that he was inherently a bad or an evil person, and he wasn't bound for the fiery pits of eternal damnation as he might have imagined, though he was in need of some basic and quite drastic reorientation. However, her primary allegiance here was to the Design and toward her client, George, or Bradley Foster, or whoever he really was, to the extent that this was in harmony with the Design; and additionally, of course, as a matter of basic human kindness.

“Tell me again, in your own words ….” Rinzen repeated, and this time it carried with it a veiled, but quite distinct threat, that “I shall not politely ask you again.”

“I lied,” the man finally blurted out, unable to contain the seething mass of emotion and inner conflict for one moment longer.

“You lied here in this court, whilst under oath?” It was more a statement than a question.

“Witness, you are directed to answer the question,” the judge requested firmly, leaning forward anxiously in his chair at this sudden and quite unexpected admission.

“Yes, I lied to the court.” The man momentarily glanced at the judge and apologized before hurriedly turning away. “I'm sorry. I really am so sorry. Everything I told you – here in court and under oath – was a lie.”

There were gasps from the public gallery at this point and, glancing round to check Brad's reaction as he stood in the dock, she could see the pent-up emotion beginning to erupt. He staggered back and sat down in the seat behind him, and for once the heavy-handed policeman made no move to admonish him.

“Witness, you may step down and a bailiff will escort you to the cells. I need hardly tell you that attempting to pervert the course of justice is a grievous crime and that when you are brought before me again, you can fully expect a lengthy custodial sentence.”

Rinzen turned to the judge. “If you would indulge me for one moment, your Honour. This is vitally important, so that my client can obtain closure and rest in peace ….”

“Granted, Madam Defender,” the judge consented.

“Tell the court now. Did you see the defendant, Bradley Foster commit the murder; or any crime for that matter?”

“No, I did not,” the man sobbed and he produced a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his eyes and loudly blow his nose.

“Speak up please,” the judge requested.

“No, I did not. To the best of my knowledge, Bradley Foster is innocent of any wrongdoing.”

Rinzen wasn't going to leave it there. “What do you mean exactly when you say: to the best of my knowledge?”

Norris Whitmore's head had begun to twitch from side to side, so violently in fact that Rinzen was worried that he might dislocate his neck.

“I … I mean. I mean. I mean. Oh, heaven help me, please …. I mean that I know that Bradley Foster is innocent of these crimes.”

“Then tell me one final thing, Mister Whitmore: do you know who did commit the murder?”

The sweat was literally pouring off Norris Whitmore by this time and the armpits of his shirt were drenched. He mopped his fevered brow with the handkerchief, which you could have wrung out like a wet face flannel.

“The witness is directed to answer that question or face the full force of my wrath,” the judge intervened, banging his gavel repeatedly to emphasise his point, regardless of how by convention a gavel was to be used.

“Tarquin Hall,” he finally blurted out, like you might involuntarily emit projectile vomit. He pointed his shaking hand in the direction of the public gallery and Rinzen followed his gaze, but the man had gone by that time.

“Bailiff, take this man down. Officer?”

The policeman in the dock looked up sharply. “Yes, your Honour?”

“Release the defendant. And then contact your superiors. A warrant is to be issued for the arrest of ….”

“Tarquin Hall, your Honour,” the Clerk of the Court reliably informed him.

“A warrant is to be issued for the man's arrest, on suspicion of the murder of ….”

“June Foster, your Honour.”

“... of June Foster. If they require further details, then please refer them to me or to the clerk.”

“Right away, your Honour,” the policeman nodded anxiously and he fumbled for his keys to unlock the manacles around Brad's wrists.

When Bradley was freed, the judge requested that the officer let him out of the dock, by means of a concealed gate in the wooden framework, and into the courtroom. Bethany Holt rose to her feet and guided him to her chair and he was allowed to sit there, still very much dazed by what had so abruptly and unexpectedly transpired. Bethany Holt had that sad and defeated look about her that seemed to suggest that this was the least she could do. Then the judge addressed the court.

“It is our unanimous decision, having heard the overwhelming testimony of Norris Whitmore that the defendant, Bradley Foster, be found innocent of all charges. Mister Foster, you are free to go, with our sincere apologies and – I trust – those of the police and the Crown Prosecution, for having dragged your good name through this dreadful mess on such flimsy and deeply flawed evidence.”

The prosecutor stood there silently, his head bowed.

The judge nodded his head in Rinzen's direction, which was probably as close to a bow as he could bring himself. “And Madam Defender, you are to be commended for your timely and astute intervention. Thank you. The court is now adjourned.”

With that, the judge banged his gavel down on the sound block. And as he did so, Rinzen could see things beginning to dissolve around her. First the other people began to fade away, with the exception of her, Bradley Foster and Ruth still up in the gallery. Some went gently into the good night; whilst others were quite bewildered by what was happening to them, looking around beseechingly; some even down on their knees in earnest prayer; and one or two began to wail inconsolably in their final, dying moments. As for George or Brad, he sat there with his head cupped in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably and repeating over and over to himself “Thank you, thank you, oh thank you so much.” This was not a pleasant or an easy thing to behold, the removal of the scaffolding and “purging of the house”, but it was what needed to happen, nonetheless. From out of the these sad, abandoned, neglected, shored-up ruins would ultimately be discovered a priceless hidden treasure sufficient to rebuild a veritable palace in its place and provide for him and those close to him for the rest of his days.

Then the whole fabric of the courtroom itself appeared to slowly and painfully and mournfully unravel as you might unravel an old woollen jumper or a tapestry – Rinzen could actually feel the threads unravelling somewhere just above and between her eyes, which was a most peculiar and slightly unnerving feeling – and when this was done, she found herself in a dim and pastel-coloured but otherwise featureless expanse. The only solid thing that she could see and feel in any direction, was a smooth and shiny and solid marble floor beneath her feet; of the ruins, only this firm foundation remained. Sometimes that's how painfully far down one had to go in order to find liberation and only then could the rebuilding begin. Now that took some guts and she could only admire George, and trust that he was strong enough to bear this.

Though the court had dissolved around them at the moment of his acquittal, several figures still remained.

On the one side she stood, alongside Ruth.

And on the other side stood another lady and a girl, and they were beckoning to Brad.

George – or Brad or whoever he really was – was faced with an agonizing dilemma. She could see that plainly in his eyes and etched across his features, and she could feel it, too – it was that palpable – though she didn't as yet know quite why he should still be agonized, now that he was free. And then she realized that it was all so obvious. Brad stood in the middle and would look first to Ruth and then to this other pair, and then back again to Ruth, and he seemed to be paralysed by grief and indecision.

“Who's this?” she enquired, attracting George's attention.

“That's June, my dear wife, and Sophia, my beloved daughter,” he replied without hesitation. And instantly she knew exactly what this was all about, and what she must do.

“George? George, listen to me.”

For a few moments, she regained his attention.

“This is not real.”

“Of course it's real,” George protested, backing away.

“Ruth is real. She loves you and she is waiting for you to come back to her. You have a long and wonderful life together to look forward to.”

“I know that Ruth is real and I love her, too. But I also love my wife and daughter. And it's wrong to have to choose between them. I simply can't choose between them. Don't you understand? I'm in two minds and utterly torn between them.”

“George, forgive me, but I do understand and I have to tell you the truth. You were parted from your wife and daughter years ago – a lifetime ago. These are just hitch hikers you've picked up along the way, woven into your story and made a part of you.”

“How can that be?” he half pleaded, half demanded to know.

“Ruth is real. She exists in the here and now. She loves you and she desperately needs you to be here for her. Your wife and daughter from a previous life? They moved on long, long ago, and now they're simply figments of your own imagination. You've been lost in this mire for far too long. And now the time has come for you to finally let go and to finally move on, too, George.”

“Just like the nervous twitching Norris Whitmore and Tarquin Hall with his evil withering glare and the nasty heavy-handed policeman and the buffoon who sat behind the judge's bench. I'll admit that I don't know what actually happened to you when you left that life and made your descent, but I do know that these things have become twisted and convoluted in your mind. These people, even what you take to be your dear wife and your beloved daughter. I'm so sorry to have to tell you this, George – it grieves me, too – but they have simply become bizarrely twisted figments of your own imagination. And you really do need to leave them behind and let them rest in peace. Fond memories of your dear wife and your beloved daughter will remain. But now, you must leave these shadow puppets behind and return to the here and now of the real world and be with people who really do care about you, like Ruth, Master Sonam and dear old Mildred Drew.”

“George, deep down – way down inside – you know without the shadow of a doubt that I'm telling you the truth and that that is where you really belong and where your true destiny lies.”

Finally the enormity of it all began to sink in and George looked at her with genuine and undiluted anguish in his eyes.

“Go ahead, George,” Rinzen offered, taking one final gamble. A huge gamble, even though she was encouraged by Banu Zadar. “Give your wife and daughter one last hug, assure them that you'll meet again one fine, sunny day; then wave them goodbye and return with Ruth and me.”

Much as it clearly grieved him, George dug deep, really deep, and did this one last thing and then he turned back to Rinzen, took hold of Ruth's hand and they walked slowly and painfully away.

At this point, George woke abruptly from his dream, the tears streaming down his face. And – wiping the beads of perspiration from her own brow – at her signal, she, Tenzing and the Master Sonam quietly slipped out of the study to leave George and Ruth alone for a time to comfort one-another and perhaps rediscover and know one-another for the very first time.

Right now, George was probably thinking that the nightmare was all over and done with and that he'd finally “arrived”, and he was fully entitled and welcome to bask in the warmth and pleasure of this moment of victory, for a time.

However, Rinzen and Sonam knew full well, of course, that the lad had simply taken his first faltering step in the right direction, and that the real and even more challenging work he would undoubtedly face in the coming months and years, perhaps whole lifetimes, had only just begun. A great deal had erupted from him recently and still more – much more – was still left to bubble to the surface from his dark depths.

There would inevitably be mistakes and times of backsliding during the mountainous ascent George faced, though fortunately there were safe plateaus here and there on that ascent, so the lad would thankfully not slide all the way back down and have to start all over again from base camp. And this time round he was not battling on alone, he was in the safe hands of an experienced guide, Master Sonam, and the safe keeping of the Friends.

22. Born again

Of course, it wasn't all plain sailing from there on. Far from it. They had their ups and downs. Don't we all?

Tenzing sighed a deep sigh, not quite sure what to make of George at times, though he'd grown quite fond of the guy. George had been “born again”, as they say in religious circles, and had been banging on about “Sonam says this” and “Sonam says that” for some time and generally singing the Master's praises. Of course, this was perfectly understandable, but it simply had to stop.

At this point, there came a polite cough and George spun round to see who it was. It was the Master Sonam himself.

“You know, there's a game people play,” the Master began. “It's sometimes called My God is bigger than your god, though it goes by many other names and even no name at all, and it has many subtle – and not so subtle – variations.”

And with that, the Master went quietly on his way, leaving George looking decidedly red faced and humbled by this impeccably timed intervention.

As the ever-perceptive Mildred Drew had once remarked to him, and George was acutely aware at that moment:

“This kind of answer, which is the real world's response to you, can arrive from any direction and at any moment: perhaps within seconds; or days, months, even years later. It can arrive in a simple aside in a quite unrelated article in the morning newspaper, or in an everyday conversation with a neighbour, or whilst you lay in the bath dreaming. And it can arrive as a gentle whisper, or like the kiss of a lover, or a timely intervention when your life is at a crossroads; even with the roar of a trumpet so loud that it threatens to blow your house down. By house, I mean one's selfhood and the plans one has made. If an answer does come in such an undeniable form, however, it's simply that you haven't been listening to all the far more subtle promptings and answers that preceded and foreshadowed it. These things never happen in isolation; there are always intuitions and promptings and clues beforehand.”

~~~O~~~

The daily meetings with Sonam had stopped by this time, though George was going to see Rinzen every day now. She'd predicted that that first hellish nightmare would not be the last; that other issues would now rise to the surface of their own volition, for them to work on; and that this would be a lengthy, deep and at times painful process. And how right Rinzen had been.

All too often George would wake shaking with fear from some utterly convincing adrenaline-pumping nightmare. And sometimes he'd be hit by a sudden, conscience-triggering heart-thumping realization in the middle of the day, which he found most unsettling.

All he could do was hang on to his love for Ruth, who was immensely supportive throughout these ordeals, and place his utmost trust in Rinzen and in the Tradition that she so ably represented.

~~~O~~~

The End of the Beginning

Other books by the same author

in the Shadowlands series,

awaiting publication on the Kindle

1. The Lost Treasure of Roth Nagor.

2. Life on the Flipside (or In Two Minds).

3. Escape from the Shadowlands.

4. In Search of Destiny.

5. The Lucian Uprising.

6. Time and Time again.

7. The Gift.

8. The Host and the Guests.

9. Whisperings of Love.

10. The Insiders: Exploring the higher realms of possibility.

Life on the Flipside

or

In Two Minds

By Etienne de L'Amour

A prequel, book 2 in the Shadowlands series.

1A high and largely rural plateau surrounded by mountainous land in the East.

2See Uwaisi (singular) and Uwaisyaan (plural).

3From The Cage by Walter de la Mare.

4A hot land, far to the south.

5Rum cut with water.

6Policemen.

7Magistrates.

8Hell.

9Provided with housing, often by the military.

10Visit the lavatory.

11Someone lacking refinement or finesse.

12Chungari means Herb of Enlightenment and it is used for medicinal and developmental purposes.

13Get drunk.

14Adapted from a tale recounted in Idries Shah's The Magic Monastery, Octagon Press.

15Rifatzada means 'Elevated Noble'.

16Banu means a lady, a bride or a flagon of wine and Zadar means noble.

Table of Contents

Dedication

One: From tragedy to travesty

1. The last day dawns

2. The setup

3. A witness comes forward

4. Final prayers

5. A last minute hitch

6. The long walk

7. The appeal

8. The final moment

Two: The nether region

1. The new arrival

Three: Life on the flipside

1. The early days

2. The welcoming arms of the lesser world

3. Invisible friends

4. Dare devil escapades

5. Tragedies strike

6. Drawing the short straw

7. Stood up

8. Out of the frying pan ...

9. A frantic search

10. Upper Wyevale

11. Anxious times

12. A welcome visitor

13. A knock on the door

14. Suspicions are raised

15. A home away from home

16. A meeting is convened

17. The first encounter

18. A case of the jitters

19. The second encounter

20. The debriefing

21. A different approach

22. Born again